


The Two Most Important Letters In The Acronym Are ME

by conceptofzero



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Dark Comedy, M/M, Terrible People Being Terrible, pinkwashing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-07-02 06:01:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15790422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/conceptofzero/pseuds/conceptofzero
Summary: "Party people, hey hey! It's June and you know what that means! It's p-p-p-p-p-PRIDE MONTH!!" Mark Beaks pumps his arm in the air, facing down a wall of cell phone wielded by his assistants. One of them presses a button on their phone, making an airhorn noise. Mark continues his impromptu pitch, as if Graves isn't standing directly behind him, clearly confused. "That's right, we here at Waddle are totally into gay pride! We're proud supporters of the L, G, B, and especially the T! My favorite letter, right behind W."Markr's fingers trace the air in a W. "And, this very special Pride Month, I am coming out. That's right, your very own beloved Mark Waddle is a member of the community!"This is not how Graves expected this bodyguard job to go.





	The Two Most Important Letters In The Acronym Are ME

**Author's Note:**

> For Ray, who convinced me to watch DuckTales and encouraged me to write this little bit of dark comedy just for him.

Falcon Graves has specific tastes. All of them are expensive. He also has a number of skills that nicely compliment one another. Brute force. Good suits. Quick thinking. A willingness to do anything to get the job done. That's how he's ended up in his line of business. His skills could be used anywhere and for anything, but they are especially suited to corporate espionage, and to making Falcon Graves the kind of money that can afford the rent on his elegant penthouse suite and his orchid garden. 

"Wow, this is like, crazy classy. I'm putting this up on my 'gram." Cuts through a familiar and absolutely infuriating voice. Graves, who is in the middle of misting his orchids, brings his head up just in time to be caught on camera by Mark Beaks of all people. 

Last time Graves saw him, it was shortly after he plummeted off the side of Waddle headquarters and landed on a trampoline. It had been the single worst assignment of his entire life, and he previously had the misfortune of working for Flintheart Glomgold. At least Scrooge McDuck had the decency to only thwart Graves instead of utterly humiliating him. 

That selfie Mark took with him was still the first image that came up online when searching Falcon Graves. 

"Get out of my apartment!" Graves shouts as he quickly exits the greenhouse, taking care to shut the door carefully behind him. He refuses to let this idiot result in destroying his flowers. 

"Those real flowers? That is so perf! You are just like the whole package!" Mark doesn't leave. He promptly flops on the chaise lounge. "Anyway hey I'm hiring you! Hashtag guarding my bodyyyyy!" 

"Excuse me?" No, wait, don't get into a discussion with this absolute fucking moron. That's a trap. Graves simply crosses the hardwood floor of his apartment, grabs Mark by the hood on the absolutely dreadful sweater he's wearing, and promptly carries him out to the balcony. "I'm going to finish what I started!" 

"Cool cool cool, off the roof right? Been there, did that, yolo'd too! Great times. But before you do that, you should absolutely check your bank account." Mark puts a foot on Graves' chest, poking him with those tiny little claws of his. "Just a peeky-poo." 

Graves does not want to take a peeky-poo. He wants to throw this dreadful excuse for a bird off his balcony and enjoy the sensation of seeing a billion dollars hit the pavement and splatter. But. 

But, he has bills to pay, and it's been difficult to get jobs after Mark plastered him all over the internet. To no one's great surprise, the kind of people who are looking for people to perform corporate espionage prefer employees who don't end up exposed all over social media.

He keeps Mark dangling just over the balcony with one hand and opens the browser on his phone, navigating to his banking website, and logging into his account-

The numbers that greet him are substantially larger than they were this morning. 

"So I'm going to need somebody to do the job you were doing before, but totally for me instead of just secretly for me! Follow me around, glare at everybody, look like a total buzzkill! You know the business! Hey, this is like, at least triple the height from Waddle! I should totally get a penthouse!" He pauses, "Or maybe I have one? I'm going to ask ma lawyer." 

Mark Beaks remains an idiot. But he pays very well. Very, very well. Graves takes this into consideration. "That is my weekly rate. Double it." 

"Only if you're willing to take notes! I've got a looooot I want you to be doing!" Graves' hand dips and Mark laughs. "Okay okay, double the weekly rate! I'm going to need you for like, four weeks!" 

"Transfer it all ahead of time." He demands.

“Hahah, whaaaat? I can do like, maybe half of that, but not all of it right now. How else can I be sure you’ll show up to work?” 

“I never disappoint a client. Even if they are you. Three weeks, up front.” 

"Urg, like, right now? Like right right now? Urrggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggg." Mark drags on and on, until he runs out of breath. Then he finally starts typing on his phone. It really only take less than thirty seconds, and Graves' bank account goes up an extra zero. 

Graves sets Mark back on the balcony. "Now get out." 

"Selfie time first!" And before he can prepare, Mark's already in position and he's snapping a photo. "Reunited and it feels so good! See you at work tomorrow!" 

And with that, Mark finally leaves Graves' apartment. Graves grinds his break. He's going to need to do at least an hour of meditation to calm down. But it's fine. Because when he's done, he can take this money and buy himself that tea set he's been eyeing up for months now. It's going to look so good on display in his living room. 

\--

The next morning when he shows up, Mark tries to put a beanie on him. Graves slaps it out of his hand. Mark stares at it on the floor for a moment before he looks up. "Sooooo you want a knit hat instead or-"

"No hats of any kind." He's wearing a suit. He doesn't need a hat. And since he's not sneaking around, he doesn't have to blend in. He's going to wear his tux and that's it. He is not being paid to change his outfit, and there isn't enough money in the world to convince him to wear a hat.

"What about a cowboy hat? No, scratch that, rural, totally not the look I'm going for right now. Modern baby, that's the way I like it! That's why the beanies are so good, they're helicopters, but hats! Helicopters for your head! Wait hold that." And Mark gets his phone out, typing on it. 

Graves waits for him to finish, but as time ticks by, he doesn't. Eventually he leans in. 

Mark is replying to tweets with animated gifs. Graves slaps the phone out of his hand, straight onto the floor. The satisfaction he gets from seeing it shatter is short-lived, as Mark just pulls out another fucking phone and starts typing again. "Anyway, if you won't wear a hat, how about a scarf?" 

"With this suit?" Graves scoffs. A scarf might go with some suits, but he's wearing a classic black two-piece. 

"Yeah man, it would be fresh as hell!" He gets back to typing, but at least he talks to Graves this time. "You're totally wearing the scarf. Anyway hey, stand there and look like a beast! Here we go!" 

A little drone flies by, looping a rainbow scarf around Graves' neck. A dozen assistants quickly swarm them, all pointing their cameras at them, some with the flashes on and others filming. Mark tucks his phone away, patting his feathers in place quick and then throwing his arms wide, nearly knocking them into Graves. "Wait-" Graves says.

"Party people, hey hey! It's June and you know what that means! It's p-p-p-p-p-PRIDE MONTH!!" He pumps his arm, and one of the assistants presses a button on their phone, making an airhorn noise. "That's right, we here at Waddle are totally into gay pride! We're proud supporters of the L, G, B, and especially the T! My favorite letter, right behind W." His fingers trace the air in a W. "And, this very special Pride Month, I am coming out. That's right, your very own beloved Mark Waddle is a member of the community!" 

What? Graves stares. He doesn't mean to, but also, he just stares. 

One of the assistants holds up their phone. There's a scrolling chat on it and a wave of text rolls over it, swarms of emojis and pictures. It must mean something because Mark beams. "I know right? It's so cool! I'm just like you, totally relatable! And because Waddle is so proud to be part of the community, I'm announcing brand new Waddle pride merchandise!"

The airhorns sound again and Mark unzips his hoodie, revealing another underneath, but this one rainbow with the Waddle logo over the chest. He unzips his shirt and there's another rainbow flag shirt under that. "T-shirts! Hoodies! Beanies! Scarves! Phone cases! Show your pride by visiting our store! And don't forget to download our apps which, for the month of June... all have rainbow logos. BOOYEAH!"

Graves is speechless. This is by far the most tasteless coming out he has ever seen. Which of course it is. How else would Mark Beaks conduct himself? He was wearing a hoodie under another hoodie, without any semblance of shame or discomfort. 

"And remember, at Waddle, you're always welcome in our community." One of the assistants plays something that can barely be described as music and Grave makes a horrified face. Mark goes completely still and doesn't move until the cameras drop, at which point he turns to the person blaring the music. "What is that?" 

"Uh, that latest trend? It's like, classic vine audio cut up and remixed into trap music." The assistant's face waivers. "I know you wanted dubstep but it's not testing well with the demo-" 

"Yeeeeeah okay so, when I tell you do so something, you do it, and like, irony is really big with everyone, so, you're fired." Mark turns to Graves. "Hey, bodyguard, escort them outta here, I'm going to call ma lawyer!" 

Graves, who hasn't done anything except wear a scarf and stand in a fucking weird video that not only has blasted his face on the internet again, but has also done so while he was wearing a fucking rainbow scarf, is all too happy to have something in his wheelhouse to take care of. 

"With pleasure." He cracks his knuckles and does his fucking job. 

\--

Working for Mark is exhausting in the worst way. He's had jobs that were long and stressful, hours spent quietly infiltrating companies and breaking into CEO's offices to threaten them into giving up their personal projects, or days spent staking out homes waiting for the opportunity to break in and steal the project's hard drives. Graves is used to waiting, and then glorious bursts of violence. 

He isn't used to Mark, who spends approximately half his time shamelessly showboating for attention, and the other half staring at a computer screen in a dark room while someone else brings him food and drink. The only part that doesn't drive him insane is when Mark has his yoga at 10am, since Graves can step outside to smoke a cigarette. 

It's about the only peace he gets. Even when Mark is working, he finds a way to babble to himself, usually rambling threats about how he's going to get various revenges against people who've slighted him, or ways of wrestling control of other people's IPs from their original owners. The rest of the time, it's an endless non-stop pitch for products for phones that Graves can't fathom anyone ever using. Who would ever want to split appetizers with a total stranger? It's disgusting. 

"Classic old school cigarettes! That's so you!" Graves is so deep in his head that he doesn't realize that Mark's beside him until he speaks up. He fixes Mark with a withering look. 

Mark is usually punctual, but he must be out early today. He's already got his phone turned and Graves can't move quickly enough before Mark gets a selfie of them together. "Totally going up on my feed! Old school cool! " 

Graves, who broke a dozen phones before finally giving up, cranes his head to look over Mark's head and down at the screen of his phone. The photo has three animated emojis on it. Mark has typed out "Old school cool #smoking #lol #gaybae #waddle #thecommunity #;)" 

None of it makes any fucking sense. 

"Every time you post a photo, you make it increasingly difficult for me to seek employment once my contract is done here." Graves reminds him, not because he expects Mark to care, but because he's being charged for making Graves' life more difficult. "I'll be adding that to my weekly bill." 

"Oh yeah sure sounds great!" Mark doesn't care. "You're doing so good for my numbers. Look at all that engagement! Man, this is the BEST promo we've run since we handed out phones to the first fifty people in line and everyone rioted over it! And it's even better! Do you know why Graves?" 

"No." He says and tries to finish his cigarette quickly. 

Mark turns his eyes up on him, "Because this time, I'm in the middle of the promo! It's all about me!"

"Mmmhmm." He says. Mark is insufferable, and Graves is hardly a stranger to working for self-absorbed narcissists. But Mark is something else. Everything revolves around him - the product promotions, the advertisements, the interviews. Most rich people make a point of keeping up a wall between them and the general public, in case ordinary people decide they've had enough and lash out. But Mark invites the public in, wanting them not only to look at his wealth, but actively participate in giving him more.

It's absolutely disgusting and hideously tacky. Graves is almost a little envious of how well this simpleton manipulates people. 

"I'm totally coming out again next year!" He says, typing a mile a minute. 

"You can't come out twice." Graves points out the fucking obvious, because it seems no one else will. 

"I totally can! I just walk myself back in, deny everything I said, then next year, BOOM, hit 'em with it again!" Mark laughs to himself, and turns his phone to show Graves a video. "Hey look at this video of Scrooge McDuck walking right into a glass door. It cracks me up every time." 

Graves does not look at the video. He looks at Mark instead. "Go back in?" 

"Oh yeah totally! See, I didn't even really come out, if you think about it. I just said I was a member of the Community! Which is totally the name of my upcoming social media venture! The Community!" He swipes over and shows Graves yet another endless looking feed. "See, I'm a member of the Community, and they are too, so now we've got synergy and-" 

Grave grabs Mark's phone and chucks it hard as he can at the nearest wall, causing Waddle employees to scatter when it smashes open. Mark looks at it, and pulls out another phone. "So-"

He grabs this one and smashes it too, and then he's grabbing onto Mark, ignoring the way he yells as he shakes him. "You came out to promote a fucking app?!" 

"Uh, duh?" Mark raises both eyebrows. "Did you really think I'm like gay or something? Oh wow! Really? That's great! If somebody like you buys it then-" 

Graves just throws Mark this time. It's bad bodyguard etiquette but he's feeling pissed off enough to do it. Mark flies, and promptly lands on three employees who rush over to cushion the blow. Graves doesn't bother to wait and see if Mark is fine. He just storms off. Nothing is worth this. No amount of pay is worth it. 

(Three hours later, he's back at Waddle. The contract is iron clad. Mark just takes another selfie of them together and puts it out. "Made up with the #gaybae #reunited #feelssogood"

Mark is beaming. Graves scowls through the entire thing and promises himself that as soon as he's out of his contract, he's going to sell Waddle's secrets to anyone who wants them.) 

\--

It's two weeks into this hell job when Graves is stopped by a fan. Not Mark, who is currently taking fucking forever to use the fucking washroom, but Graves, whose only warning is "oh my god it's him!" before he's surrounded by three tiny fucking twinks. It's obvious because not only are they all baby-faced and he could close a hand around each of their waists, but because they're all wearing the rainbow gear - not Waddle's hoodies and shirts, but their own. The ringleader, a bird with dyed green and blue feathers and a t-shirt that has Peter Pan on it wearing a rainbow version of the fairy outfit, just gushes, "You're Graves!!" 

Graves narrows his eyes and he nearly grabs the kid by the neck, but he's not a threat. "Who sent you?" 

"Nobody! We big fans! Can we get a picture?" And the ringleader's friend holds up his phone, showing his lockscreen. It's one of Mark's fucking selfies with Graves, but they've mostly cropped Mark out of it. It's kind of funny. Mark would be pissed to see that they've cut him out of the picture. 

And it would probably make him absolutely enraged to know that Graves is popular enough to get a picture without Mark present. That would certainly bruise his bloated ego. 

"Don't post it anywhere." He tells them, knowing they'll disobey. He poses with each of them, and sets a hand on their waists. They all predictably get flustered and excited. He's always liked that about twinks. They don't suit his lifestyle in the long run, but they're fun to spend the weekend with. 

"Do you have a twitter or insta or anything? I tried to find you everywhere but..." Ringleader asks and Graves chuckles a little.

"I prefer to stay private." He tells them. They're all very eager and it's flattering. But they're also a little too young for his tastes, so he's careful not to be too overt. Anyone younger than twenty-three is a nightmare waiting to happen. 

"You should get an instagram." The ringleader shows his feed - which is full of men who look somewhat like Graves, all big thick birds of prey with broad chests, flexing after gym day. And this cheeky little twink just smirks, raising his eyebrows. "You'll be very popular." 

"Regrettably-" He starts to say, about to explain that the privacy thing extends to shirtless selfies as well, when the bathroom door slams open.

"Hey hey hey! What's going on!" Mark promptly zips around Graves, arms wide. "Are those fans I hear?!" 

Unlike the vast wealth of other fan encounters Graves has had to sit through, these ones look a little less enthusiastic. There's no quick request for a selfie, or gushing about Waddle products. Instead, the silent third friend - a slightly younger bird with a pieced beak - scoffs. "Hey look, it's Mark Sucks-a-lot. You steal anybody's intellectual property today? Or are you just too busy slumming it in the 'Community'?"

"Bet it's weird sucking a dick that's not your own, huh?" Ringleader snaps and the other twink laughs. 

Mark's eyes narrow. "Graves-" 

"I'll take care of it. Come on." He gets the twinks moving out of the store, perhaps being a little more gentle than he usually would be. The twinks pick it up and walk, but not before pieced-beak flips him off. "Mr. Beaks would like his privacy." 

"Oh yeah, I bet he would. That's why he posts a million selfies a day, huh?" Rainbow-hair snorts. Graves can't help but smile a little. "That drives you nuts too?" 

"It would be unprofessional to comment on my employers' choices." He monotones, and that gets a laugh from the twinks. When he glances back at Mark Beaks, he looks pissed and huffy, staring at the three as they're finally shooed out of shop.

"Hey. Graves. You got a phone?" Rainbow asks. Graves does, and upon producing the sleep flip phone, they all laugh. "Wow, this is crazy. Where do you even get a flip like this?"

"Japan." They're the only people who still make phones that aren't awful, ugly squares meant to serve as miniature TVs in your pocket. 

Rainbow boldly takes it and punches in his number and a name - Ryan - and hands it back. "Call me when you finally dump that loser. I'll give you an out of body experience." 

"We're not dating." Graves says. He leaves Ryan's number in place on his phone. 

"Yeah? You sure he knows that?" Ryan raises his eyebrows as he walks backwards. "Because he sure thinks you're all his." 

"Turn around." Pieced-beak hisses, and Ryan narrowly avoids tripping over a fire hydrant. Graves heads back inside. 

Mark is standing there, glaring at him, arms crossed over his chest. "You didn't even throw them!" 

"I used an appropriate amount of force." He raises an eyebrow. "Are you ready to go?" 

"Urg, whatever. And no. I want a coffee. Get me whatever looks great in a picture." He snaps his order to the barista behind the counter, who gets to work on it. Mark yanks his phone out and starts furiously typing on it. "Stupid know-it-all idiots. You think some people would be more grateful for all the hard work I'm doing. I turned all of our apps rainbow, okay? We got complaints about it! Urg!" 

"I suspect they don't particular care about insincere support." Graves drawls and gets a sharp look from Mark. 

"Yeah well, they're stupid. And did you see that one's feathers? Like, who dyes these days? It's so boring and stupid. You might as well tell everyone you're a dumb scene kid whose parents hate them." He points a thumb at his chest. "My parents have never hated me, ever! Ever! They think I'm the greatest thing that ever happened to them! And I am! I'm totally sending them another helicopter! Just gotta text ma lawyer to do it and then send me a selfie. But first-" 

"Your double-berry cotton candy white chocolate fapp with whip, sprinkles and glitter is ready." The exhausted looking barista sets a drink down on the counter. It looks a something a unicorn would throw up. Mark snatches it up, slams down $10 and gets his phone out, turning to get a selfie. 

Graves steps out of the shot. Mark quickly pivots to get him back in, and Graves gets a hand up to obscure his face. "Urrrgg Graves, put your hand down! I'm paying you to be in the shot!" 

"Are you paying me to be your fake boyfriend?" His tone is sharp. He should have figured this out before now. Maybe he didn't grasp all the slang and hashtags, but some of them were certainly suspicious. 

"Uh, duh?" Mark groans as he shifts again and Graves still won't lower his hand. "Come on, put it down! I need to put this up and rub it in their stupid little faces that you're mine and not theirs!" 

Graves does not slap the phone out of Mark's hand. He slaps the drink out of it instead, splattering it over Mark. And while he lets out a strangled noise, Graves opens his wallet and puts a pair of $20s on the counter. "Don't post about this on social media." He tells her, and grabs Mark by the hood of his sweater and drags him out of there. 

It's absolutely worth listening to him bitch all the way back to Waddle, knowing that there won't be any selfies while Mark's got pink sludge splattered all over his sweater. 

\--

The escape is short-lived. Four hours later, he's forced to stand behind Mark at an industry party. Graves is wearing a suit, like usual. Mark is wearing a leather jacket, a black t-shirt, and dark jeans, and a rainbow snapback. It's somehow worse than his usual hoodie outfit. Graves would be impressed if he wasn't forced to stand beside him and be in all his pictures. They're all going to end up on blogs talking about Mark Beaks and his 'boyfriend'. 

The moment they're inside, he gets a glass off a tray, sipping it. He very nearly spits it out. This isn't champagne. This is a fucking soft drink. He promptly slams the glass back down on the tray, while Marks is grabbing one. He drinks it without blinking. "Hey so keep an eye out for Scrooge McDuck, because I'm pretty sure he's not cool enough to be here, but if he is here, I'm going to rub it in his face that it's hashtag pride month and he's totally blowing it." 

Graves does not. He flips his phone open, remembering one of the tags on Mark's posts. 

GRAVES: What does 'gaybae' mean?

He waits for a response.   
RYAN: whos this?  
RYAN: wait  
RYAN: graves????  
RYAN: lmfao holy shit hi there  
RYAN: it's gay and bae smashed together.  
RYAN: baes what you call your boo, or boyfriend or the person you really like  
RYAN: it's so fucking dumb and nobody uses it anymore  
RYAN: but your boyfriend is living in 2011  
RYAN: anyway hey what are you doing? 

Graves looks up at the crowd of loud, rich idiots around him. It's like most of his jobs, though those places serve actual champagne, and everyone's usually dressed better. He can spot some chunky Rolexes here and there, but most of them are dressed in hoodies, or puffy vests and absolutely no one is wearing dress pants. Except for Graves. 

GRAVES: I am at work. They are serving soft drinks in champagne glasses and all dressed in the worst sweaters I've ever seen.   
RYAN: LMFAO HOLY SHIT  
RYAN: PLEASE SEND A PICTURE  
RYAN: can ur flip phone do that?  
GRAVES: It cannot.   
RYAN: i'll make my own mind picture then  
RYAN: they better be paying you a lot  
GRAVES: More than most small countries gross in a year.   
RYAN: wow   
RYAN: gonna just put this out there  
RYAN: you're probably super evil and I shouldn't be into it  
RYAN: but I totally am   
GRAVES: In the end, I am always an exception for most other's moral standards.  
RYAN: this is some supervillian shit  
RYAN: get a real phone grandpa   
RYAN: how else can I send you nudes?  
GRAVES: I suppose you will have to settle for showing me in person.   
RYAN: OMG   
RYAN: WOW  
RYAN: is this why you really have the flip phone??  
RYAN: I can't believe it  
RYAN: I bet you're going to want to raw me  
RYAN: I might be into it   
RYAN: who am I kidding I'm so into this

Graves smirks. Everyone always is. They're so used to crude and fumbling interactions that even the minimum amount of confidence sends them into a tizzy. It's delightful. 

He's about to type up a response when he becomes aware of a small, angry bird by his right hand side, trying to read his screen. Graves snaps the phone shut and looks to Mark, raising his eyebrows. 

Mark crosses his arms over his chest and huffs. "Uh, you're here as my bodyguard, you're supposed to be guarding me! Someone could have come in through the window and kidnapped me! I'm a billionaire, everybody wants a piece of this." 

"No one here has any interest in kidnapping you, or spending time with you at all." Graves says dryly. With other clients, he would be more careful with his words or actions. But there's no point in that. Mark is a simpering idiot and it's become clear that he can't afford to get rid of Graves halfway through the month, not while he's still using him for photo opportunities and 'likes' on his phone. "You should return to your networking opportunities." 

"Phff whatever, they're lame and boring. So who you texting? I didn't think you could text, you know, on account of you owning the world's most ancient phone! I mean, like, come on, what even is that? It flips shut, like it's the 1990's again, except worse because if this was the 90's, then you'd be living like it was the 70's. Oh my god, I can just picture you in bell bottoms and it's like, hilarious. I'm tweeting that." And he whips out his own phone, his fingers flying over the keyboard. 

Graves' phone buzzes. And, with Mark watching, he flips it open to read it. 

RYAN: lmfao mark is real maaaad   
RYAN: he's posting so much shit on his feed  
RYAN: he always this jealous?  
RYAN: or only when someone cuter than him hits on you??

Graves can't help but let out a silent little half-laugh, chest hitching just the once. Mark's fingers go even faster, stabbing at his phone. "Oh yeah, bell bottoms, and like, those big ugly shirts. I'm going to take this picture of you, and I'm going to dress it up and tweet it out. And that's going to be just hilarious." 

RYAN: LMFAO WOW   
RYAN: HE'S SO MAD

Graves sets a hand on Mark's shoulder and plucks his phone out of his hands. He doesn't crush it this time. Instead, he opens up the feed app. There's a dozen 'jokey' tweets on there, with various emotes and pointed barbs aimed at Graves. "I want you to remove these tweets."

"Uh, check your contract, I don't have to remove anything. You signed it, I can post anything I want about you, anytime I want. Watch." And he digs out another phone, tweeting on it. "Graves says he really, really really, really likes wearing panties. Send. See, now it's out there! And everyone sees it!" 

It's an incredibly childish action. So Graves does what one does with a child in the middle of a tantrum. He opens the feed app, goes into the settings, and promptly deactivates the account. Then he tosses the phone back, watching Mark struggle to try catch them both at the same time. "There you are. Focus on your networking, and less on throwing a fit on the internet." 

Mark scoffs and goes to send another tweet. It's utterly delicious watching his face transform as he realizes they aren't sending. "Uh, what? Hey what did you do? What did you do?" 

"I'll be standing guard from that vantage point from now on." He points to a stool at the end of the bar. "If you feel threatened, give me a text. I'm sure you have my number." 

"Hey!" He leaves Mark to panic about his precious social media views and follows. 

Graves heads to the bar, taking a seat and waiving the bartender over. "Bring me a menu."

The bartender stares at Graves. "We... don't really do... it's catering." 

"Then tell me what you haven that isn't soda." He says, and the bartender's face waivers a little more as he turns around. He disappears for a moment, and comes back with a bottle of hard lemonade. Honestly. These people.

He takes the lemonade, and keeps one eye on the party, counting down the hours until this is done while texting Ryan to distract himself. 

\--

The party goes long into the night. It's agony. He checks now and then to make sure Mark is still here, before he returns to his phone and his drinks. Ryan has passed along Graves' number to his other friends, and so he's had a somewhat entertaining night receiving texts from all three of the twinks, all excited to slam Mark for all of his habits. 

Mark, as far as Graves can see anyway, seems to have recovered his account and is apparently tweeting up a storm. He's come up to the bar a few times now and disappeared with some radioactive coloured drink to pour down his throat and sulk over. 

He's tired when the party ends and ready to drop Mark off at his home, and return to his apartment, when Mark grabs him by the arm. "You know what? Fuck you." 

Graves raises both eyebrows. Mark is absolutely hammered. He can barely stand, and he's wobbling back and forth like a tree in a harsh breeze. "How many did you have, and what on earth could you possibly be drinking that was that colour of green?" 

"It's mountain dew and whiskey, duh. You're so stupid. I just can't even with you, you know? It's like, wow, I'm a super spy, I have a phone from the 90's and I dress like James Bond, but I'm not, I'm not cool like Bond, I'm uncool! I'm a weenie!" He jabs Graves' chest. "That's you. That's you." 

There are people still present, and he can see the cameras being trained on them. Graves would love to stand here and let Mark embarrass himself utterly in front of his precious social media, but he doesn't want to end up circulating anymore than he already is, and he knows he will. So he puts an arm around Mark, getting his arm in an iron grip and walks him off, playing the part of the concerned boyfriend.

"Hey, hey! Put me down! I'm not done! Put me dooooown! Urrrggggg!" Mark whines all the way out, but he's helpless to fight Graves when he's this drunk. So it's easy for Graves to load him into the car, buckle him in tight, and get in. He's about to back out when he thinks better of it, and turns on the child safety locks. 

"Haven't you had enough of embarrassing yourself tonight? I hear you did wonderfully on social media. I've been told that Squawker has already published an article." He glances at Mark, drinking in the sulky scowl on his face and the way his eye twitches. 

"Yeah, your new little boyfriend tell you that?" He clicks his beak as he sulks. "Did he tell you I'm the quickest person to reach billionaire status and join the billionaire's club? Did he tell you about my super cool awesome house, and my other house, and my helicopters, and how much money I have, and that I don't need to dye my dumb feathers to be radical, because I am radical?!" 

"No, he didn't." Graves says, and turns the radio on. "We talked about far more pleasant things." 

Mark's quiet for a bit. Graves sneaks his eyes over whenever he can to see if he has his phone out. He doesn't. That's a bit concerning, since Mark always has his phone out. 

The silence is relieving at first. Then it becomes tense. Then worrisome. Graves tries to stay silent as long as he can. But eventually, he cracks. "No more witty cracks to make on your twitter about me-" 

Mark strikes the moment Graves lets his guard down, unbuckling his seatbelt, snatching Graves' phone out of his jacket, and trying to open the door, presumably to tuck and roll out with it. He smacks his whole body into the glass instead, and squawks. "Ow!!" 

"Give me that!" Graves tries to snatch his phone back, but he can't manage it while driving the car, not without risking an accident. Mark turtles his body and since he can't escape, he flips open the phone. 

"Oh yeah real fucking steamy. Oh my god, Ryan is soooo pathetic! He's just desperate to ride your dick! Him and all his friends!" He's going through Graves' conversations. That's it. Graves slams on the brakes, coming to a stop in the middle of the road. It's late at night, and there's only one car behind them in the distance. He ignores them, and he ignores the way they honk at him as they tear past. he shoves his hand into the ball of Mark and grabs the first hard object he can find and yanks it out.

It's one of Mark's fucking phones. Mark just cackles. "Give it here!" Graves growls and tries again, this time grabbing hold of Mark's arms to yank them apart, and force him to drop the phone.

For a weak little nerd who spends all day programming, he's got some real core strength. He has to strain and Mark just keeps typing away. "And you're just eating it up! Wow, I don't know who's more pathetic, the nobody trying to ride your dick to get closer to me, or the super spy who has to get attention from teens!" 

"I'm not a super spy!" He snaps, and it's petty but honestly, he has a job title! He also finally manages to get Mark's arms up, and he snatches the phone from him. Graves shoves Mark back in his seat and holds him there. "And if you don't behave right now, I will zip tie you and throw you in the trunk." 

"You shouldn't make promises you won't go through with. You're just a cocktease-" Mark doesn't finish his sentence. Graves hits him dead center in the middle of his forehead, stunning him. And while Mark sits there, head swimming, Graves pops the trunk. 

The rest of the drive to his place is very relaxing, once he turns the radio up loud enough to drown out the occasional thumping from his trunk. 

Graves pays a great deal of money for his apartment. As such, it comes with more than a few perks: underground, heated parking, a doorman at the front entrance to keep vagrants out, private entrances in and out of the building for those in the know, and most importantly, a security force that knows better than to question why Graves entered with bodies thrown over his shoulders sometimes. He easily carts Mark to the elevator and absolutely no one comes to see what he's doing - or who the yelling man he's carrying is. 

"Hellooooooo! Where's Gizmoduck when a real crime is happening?? Hey amigo! Come carry me out of here and get me to safety, pronto!" He yells out into the empty garage. No one shows up. Graves just presses the door close button and takes him up to the penthouse suite. Mark squirms around on Graves' shoulder. "You are soooooo fired for this!" 

"If only I was. We both know when you sober up, you'll have no choice but to keep me around for the rest of the month. It would look poorly upon your brand if you were to break-up with your 'boyfriend' before the month was over." Graves keeps a hand on Mark's back to keep him steady through the wiggling. It's a relief when they hit the penthouse and he can cart him over to the guest room. He finally cuts Mark's zip ties, dumping him on the bed. "Stay here, sober up or pass out, I don't care. But leave me be." 

"Oh yeah, like I want to bug you now after this. You're the worst spy." Mark rubs his wrists and makes a face. "Those things left bruises!" 

"They did not." A quick glance confirms it. Mark holds up his wrists and points to the feathers there. Graves just rolls his eyes. "Your feathers are matted, not broken. Fluff them up." 

Mark just looks appalled. "Fluff them up? On my own? Without letting a hairdresser do it?" 

Graves just pinches the bridge of his nose. "Or don't, and do whatever you please, so long as it's quiet." 

He leaves the guest room. He's not even two steps out before he hears Mark come after him. "What is this place, a showroom for phones? There's nothing here! It's so empty!" 

"Just the way I like it. Minimal." He hates having Mark in here, but he refuses to drag Mark to his home and spend the next few hours trying to escape that. At least this way, he can relax at home - and there's so little for someone like Mark to do that surely he'll get bored and go pass out. 

Case in point: Mark stops in front of one of Graves' TVs and just stares. "Uh, what the hell is this?"

"Live footage from a satellite." Graves is ready for a drink that's not lemonade, and he fixes himself a vermouth and soda water. He glances at the monitor. "I would place it just off the west coast, probably crossing over the Baja California Sur and heading for Culiacán." 

"You can tell that? How? It's just clouds? You can't see anything? Oh my god is this what you think entertainment is? No wonder you're so boring! Where's the remote?" Mark goes looking for it. Graves lets him, in the hope he wears himself out. He certainly is tenacious, and keeps digging through the couch - only to find all the cushions are firmly attached and cannot be removed - and looking at the empty coffee table. He turns to Graves. "Are you serious? No remote?"

There is one, but it's in a box with a few others for Graves' other TVs. He lies instead, saving himself time and energy. "No remote. I have it playing what I like." 

"You're so boring! I can't even. I know some boring people, okay, I work in tech, everyone is super, super boring and so neeeerdy! But you're just like- you're the most boring man ever!" Mark just staggers close to Graves, up in his person space. Graves shoves him onto one side of the couch, and sits on the other end. "You make being a spy boring."

"Being a real spy is boring. That's the point of it. I get in, I get my information, I get out, I deliver it. Then, I get paid." He sips his drink. Just ahead of him, the earth turns on endlessly, beautifully. "I get paid a lot of money."

"You barely look like it! This looks like a show home, for boring losers with boring loser jobs." He scoffs. "And no followers on twitter, or insta or anything. You're like Scrooge McDuck." 

Graves can't help but laugh. "Good." 

"Uh, excuse me? Did you say good about Scrooge 'too cheap to even buy his own coffee' McDuck? Because the last time I was over there, he totally served me coffee that he clearly got from a hotel. It wasn't even flavoured!" 

"Scrooge McDuck is the richest man alive. No one knows how much money he has in his vault exactly, because his security is so tight that no one can get unfettered access. Anyone who breaks into the facility is found almost immediately. I have been hired on three separate occasions to perform corporate espionage on McDuck, and each time, I have found the same airtight defenses." Graves shouldn't be responding to Mark. But perhaps he's had a few too many drinks of his own, and perhaps most importantly, he's tired of putting up with Mark pouting and lashing out and expecting to get nothing back. "It's quite sad that you think you're on that duck's level. His fortune's lasted him a lifetime. I expect that yours might last you ten years, maybe less if the market gives way sooner. Your products are cheap and disposable - or else nonexistent. Your security is laughable. And your personality is transparent to anyone not currently in your nearest and dearest circle. I just spent all evening hearing a blow by blow of the tantrum you were having all over the internet, and how it compared to your previous tantrums. This was apparently an eight out of ten." 

Mark just bobs his head. "Okay, okay, okay. Alright. Time to bring out the big guns. You think McDuck's better? Yeah? Well could McDuck do this?" 

And Mark promptly gets up, and does a handstand. 

He stares at Graves, unblinking, upside down. Graves stares at Mark, watching as Mark's shirt slowly slides down his chest, before flopping over and covering his face. 

Well. He is impressed that Mark can hold it for so long, even when drunk. He isn't even shaking. This must be the advantage yoga gives you. However-

"Yes. In fact, the one time I saw him do it, he was on a single hand, and he used to cane to snag my foot." Graves is just drunk enough to share that. It's not exactly one of his proudest encounters with the enemy. But at least he had found himself in very, very good company. 

Mark tumbles over and onto his feet in a motion that is entirely too smooth. "Fine! You want a prize? Here's a prize!" 

He storms over to Graves, drops on his knees, and grabs at Graves' belt and fly. Graves just stares as Mark fights with it, until he finally manages to figure out the clipping mechanism. "What are you doing?" 

"I'm sucking your fucking dick! Duh!" He yanks down Graves' fly and starts fishing his dick out. "Since you're just sooooo fucking special and everybody wants it! But they can't have it! It's mine! I paid for it!" 

"You did not." Graves says but. He sure doesn't slap Mark's hand away. He could but... it feels good. He hasn't had a chance to get laid since he started this job. It's not the end of the world, but after flirting all night over the phone, he's perhaps a little more in the mood than usual. And while Mark is an abhorrent tasteless cretin... it seems he does know how to stroke a cock. Which he's doing with quite a lot of gusto. Graves just watches him go.

"I own you, Gravesy. For one, whole month, you're mine. I get to tell you what to do. I get to dress you up." Mark's hand strokes over his cock, and he ducks his head down, licking a thick stripe along the underside of it. That gets a slight noise from Graves, before he clenches his beak. "Yeah, that's right. I get to touch you." 

"Then touch me, and actually do something useful for once in your life." Graves grinds out. 

"I do all kinds of useful things. There's a reason I'm the billionaire, and those losers trying to dunk on me aren't. I put in the time and effort, I developed the right apps, I-" Mark won't stop bragging. Graves reaches out to grab him by the back of his head and force him forward. 

"Then actually do it, and shut up." He doesn't let go, not until Mark starts stroking him again, nice and steady. 

"You're such a grump. Were you born to just not have fun or what?" He manages to multitask this time, keeping that hand moving as it strokes up and down Graves' cock, getting him nice and hard. Mark uses his mouth a little, and he's predictably lazy, sticking to just swiping his tongue over the sensitive head and up the shaft now and then. But a lazy handjob is still better than none at all, and it's a far cry from a bad one. He leans back, enjoys his drink, and lets himself enjoy the sight. Mark's irritating, but he's handsome enough. In some better clothes, he'd be even worth parading around... 

Mark gets his other hand into the fly, his fingers pushing down and feeling through Graves' feathers until he reaches the cloaca, just a little below his cock. "Wait." Graves tells him and lifts his hips, pushing his pants down to his thighs. "I don't need you ruining the fly." 

"So? It's just a fly." Mark's fingers rub along the outside, and then slowly push in. It's very nice. He loves being fingered while getting a blowjob, though he usually doesn't get the opportunity. It's usually one or the other. "I'll buy you new pants." 

"They've very expensive-" He has to pause and his hips roll forward, encouraging Mark to sink his fingers deeper inside the cloaca. 

"How expensive can pants even be? What like, fifty bucks? Three hundred?" Mark twists his fingers and Graves doesn't quite get the chance to ask why the fuck Mark doesn't know what pants tend to cost, because he's busy clicking his beak and grinding down on those fingers. 

"Yeah, you like that. Mr. Stick-in-the-Mud likes what I'm offering. Which of course you do. Everyone likes what Mark Beaks offers. You've got no idea how lucky you are." Mark licks another stripe over the top of Graves' cock, giving it a slight suck before backing off and just fucking Graves with his fingers. Graves doesn't typically make much noise, but the few little grunts he makes just seem to encourage Mark to be even more obnoxious. "I bet your little wannabe boyfriend would love to be where I am right now. But he's not. And he won't ever be, would he?" 

Graves chuckles a little. It's funny how jealous Mark is. "He's too young for my tastes." 

"But you still liked winding him up, huh? Just because you knew it would wind me up. I bet you've been wanting this for a while." He's not jerking Graves off anymore and his fingers are just stuck in his cloaca, not even crooked anymore. Mark's gotten distracted again, and it's very irritating. He takes his hand off of Graves' cock just so he can swipe it down his body. "I bet this is your real fetish, guys you wouldn't ever admit to being into otherwise. I bet you've been jerked off for weeks now-" 

Graves grabs the back of Mark's head, and promptly forces him down his cock. The sensation of that warm, hot mouth around his cock is absolutely satisfying. The sudden silence, except for muffled protests, is even better. Graves keeps a hand on Mark's head, slowly letting him partly up, before pushing him back down, and starting to fuck his mouth, hips grinding unintentionally on those fingers again. 

"I hadn't given a single thought to fucking you until you offered." He explains, watching as Mark glares up at him. It's so delicious, seeing that scowl, and burying his cock in that smug, horrible face. "I will say, you're much easier to deal with like this. Focus, Mark. Unless you want Ryan to be right about how good you might be at this." 

That ignites a spark behind Mark's eyes. He starts to suck, and to bob his head as well. Graves' able to take his hand off of Mark's head, and to set it on his shoulder instead, just resting it there while he gets a blowjob that... well. It isn't the best by a large margin, but it's certainly not the worst either. The fact that Mark's willing to use his fingers in Graves' cloaca is doing a lot to balance things out. Determination adds a lot. Hatefucking does too. This seems to straddle both, and the experience is novel in a good way. 

Mark has to pull his mouth off after a bit to catch his breath. "Fuck that's big." He mutters, sliding another finger inside of Graves and stretching all three until it starts to burn a little. "I should get points you know. I'm going straight to the big leagues." 

"Yes, yes. You can brag about it later. Tell twitter about your 'boyfriend's' huge cock, and how you fit it down your throat." And, he gives Mark a nudge to get back to it. 

Mark opens his beak, tongue lolling out as he swallows it up again. He gets back to it, sucking harder. The whole experience is wonderful. Graves finishes off his drink, and as a special treat to himself, he sets both hands on the back of Mark's head and pins him down, rolling his hips forward and sinking his cock in deep. The fingers push in all the way to Mark's last set of knuckles, and between those and Mark's throat is tight, and the way it swallows around Graves, it's all just exquisite. He closes his eyes and just fucks Mark's mouth, listening to him gag, feeling him swallow again and again. Those three fingers twitch inside of Graves' cloaca, holding steady to let Graves get fucked while he's getting head. 

When he comes, it's the release he's been aching for since this whole messy business started. He comes down Mark's throat, and gets a thrill out of forcing a billionaire to swallow his cum. Perhaps if he ever gets a social media account, he'll put that in his bio: fucked Mark Beaks' face, and made him swallow.

He's aware of Mark's hand slapping at his own. He lets go, and opens his eyes. Mark yanks his head off of Graves' cock and gasps for air, coughing. He also yanks his hand out, rubbing his fingers. "F-fuck! Asshole! You broke 'em!" 

Graves chuckles. He leans back on the couch. "If I broke them, you wouldn't be yelling like that. They're just sore." 

"I'm going to need a doctor." Mark grumbles, but he's able to flex the fingers without a problem. He wipes at his beak and flops back beside Graves and sniffs his fingers, before taking a lick. "Huh." 

Graves just shakes his head. But, he must admit something, "You did better than I expected, for doing that for the first time."

"First time? Uh, no?" Mark laughs at Graves and just leans on his legs. "I've sucked a dick before." 

Graves pauses. He waits for Mark to laugh or say psych. He doesn't. Graves' eyes narrow. "You said you weren't gay." 

"I'm not, stupid." Mark sits back, and wiggles out of his pants, shoving them off and onto the ground. He's hard as a rock. He pulls his shirt off next, and bare naked, he climbs onto the couch. "Watch and learn, and be intensely jealous." 

Graves watches, unsure what Mark's doing as he sits upside down, with his back on the seat of the cushion, and his thighs on the back of the couch. He starts willing, pulling his knees towards himself, scooting this way and that, into what seems to be another yoga pose. "Oh yes, turn yourself into a pretzel, that's very-" 

Impressive, he means to say, but it dies on his lips as he watches Mark's hips tuck forward, and his mouth open as he runs his tongue right over his cloaca, and then promptly slots his cock straight into his mouth. It looks intensely painful, bending himself up like that. And as he sucks on the tip of his cock. Graves realizes that Mark can't get more than a few inches inside, so he's more or less just fellating the tip of his cock, sucking and licking at it more than sucking. It can't possibly be worth all that work. And yet-

And yet, yes, he finds he is a little jealous to watch Mark Beaks managed to suck himself off, and eat himself out. No wonder he's the way he is. And no wonder he never skips yoga. Graves watches intently, and sets a hand on his own cock, gently squeezing it. "When did you learn to do that?" 

Mark gives his cock another wet suck, lavishly running his tongue along the tip before he speaks. "Junior High. Everyone else wasted time chasing after girls or boys. I saved time by sucking myself off." 

Graves can't help but chuckle. "Only you would do this as a time saving measures." 

"Phhh, like I wanted any of this morons to paw at me in the backseat of their mom's Volvo. Spare me. I had good taste in everything right from the start." He strokes the base of his cock as he talks, multitasking. It's a wonder he's not on his phone at the same time. He backs his mouth down a little, awkwardly sliding his tongue into his cloaca. He's quiet for a moment as he licks himself out, before he gives it a suck, and backs off again. "Anyway, who's the billionaire, and who's desperately trying to add me on Facebook so they can show me pictures of their three nightmare children who make their life a living hell? That's right Sarah, eat shit." 

Graves laughs again, slowly starting to stroke himself as well. He takes his time, not rushing anything while he watches Mark work on himself. It's entertaining and arousing. He'll give this to Mark: it's a talent that he's only heard about before, never seen. "I suppose all that yoga is good for something after all." 

"Oh yeah." Mark agrees, slightly muffled from his own cock. He bobs his head a little, as much as he can, and while one hand works the base of his shaft, the other slides a pair of fingers into his cloaca, fingering himself and starting to thrust them in and out. It's a good show. Mark's fist starts pumping faster and his mouth bobs again and again. Even if he can't suck it all down, it must feel amazing to be able to do that yourself, to control how fast you need it to be, and to suck just the way you like. And all of that, while getting fingered?

There's only one question left: spit or swallow? Graves watches close, staring at Mark as his hands keeps jerking himself off, and his mouth closes around the tip of his cock. He sucks hard and thrusts his fingers in all the way in and grinds his knuckles down. Mark's whole body has a spasm as he orgasms. 

The answer is swallow, based on the way Mark's throat works all the way through it. He doesn't open his mouth until the last of it's gone. Mark slumps even further down the couch on himself and he finally falls to the side, sprawling out partly on Graves'. It's only quick thinking that gets a hand up to catch Mark's legs and to keep him from accidentally kicking Graves in the dick. "Totally awesome, right? I'm just the best." 

"It was... impressive." Graves will give him that much. "Will you be sore tomorrow?" 

"That's why I have a masseuse on staff! Hey phone? Make an appointment tomorrow, 9am, full body rubdown." Mark squirms until he's sitting upright. "You want one too?" 

Graves is far beyond the point of saying no on principal. "Pencil me in." He agrees. He digs around in his jacket, pulling out his cigarillo and a box of matches. lighting his smoke. He doesn't offer one to Mark, since they would be wasted on him. He lets the smoke fill his mouth, curling up into his nostrils. The flavor is exquisite and very full bodied. But there's one more thing that will make this perfectly 

He pulls Mark closer to his groin, encouraging him to get back into position. "I believe you said something about giving me a prize." 

"You already got a prize but hey, if you can't get enough of the Beaks Experience, then I should let you down. Always keep the customers coming back." Mark is so smug, and Graves would be infuriated, but it just makes it all the more satisfying when he parts that smirk with his cock. 

\--

He wakes to the sound of someone else's alarm. Graves can feel a splitting headache brewing in the back of his skull. He just lies there, still and unmoving. He refuses to move. He doesn't want to acknowledge the truth of things, which is that he got far too drunk on absolutely pathetic drinks last night, and that he fucked his employer, and that he didn't even kick him out afterwards. 

Which means that Mark Beaks is in his bed and his shitty alarm is going off on his phone-

No, correction: on at least four different phones.

"Shut them the fuck up." He snaps. "Or I will break them all." 

"Nuurrrrrrrggg." Mark mumbles. One alarm off. Two alarms. Three. Four. 

And finally, blissful silence. Graves lies there, and feels Mark settle back down beside him. At least he isn't a cuddler. If he was, Graves would lose his mind. Instead, Mark just lies beside him, close enough to feel his arm, but not suffocatingly close. It's still far too much, as he should be in the guest room, but Graves can live with this, unfortunate as it may be. 

He's nearly about to fall back asleep when Mark moves, and there's a vague impression of light. Graves reluctantly cracks an eye open. His bedroom is pitch black, as he prefers it to be. The lights will slowly filter in within the next hour, and will slowly, peacefully wake Graves from his sleep, leaving him well-rested and ready to take on the day. 

Which means that Mark's screen is the only light in the room, and as such, is absolutely blinding. "Turn that screen down."

"It's already on the dark theme and like, 22%. You're a big boy, deal with it." Mark gripes and just rolls onto his belly, pointing the light up at the ceiling instead of down at Graves. It still isn't acceptable, but it seems that's all he's going to get unless he manages the problem, and he doesn't want to. He closes his eyes. Just a little more sleep... 

Just a little more-

"FUCK!" Mark yells and Graves lurges upright, hand yanking his bedroom stand open and yanking the gun out. His eyes swing around the room madly, before he realizes there's no intruder. Mark is cursing at his phone. "Those idiots! I'm going to get them all fired! I'm going to buy their stupid company and fire them all and then ban their accounts too!" 

Graves sags against the headboard. "Can't you save your meltdown for breakfast?" 

"What the fuck is breakfast? Hey phone, what's breakfast?" Mark asks. 

There's a ding. The phone answers, in a non-threatening and servile female voice. "Breakfast is the first meal of the day and considered to be the most important meal by many nutritionists-"

"TL;DR! Phone, make a reminder! Remind me to buy Twitter and fire everyone!" Mark is pissed. Maybe even angrier than last night. Graves watches him have his little tantrum. 

"Remind yourself." Graves mutters.

"I am. I'm talking to my phone. You know what an assistant is? Wait, no, of course you don't, you use a flip phone from the dark ages. You don't even have a twitter account! You don't understand!" Mark thrashes his feet around in bed, physically throwing a tantrum. "This is bullshit! You could barely see your dick!" 

"What?" That wakes Graves the fuck up and he sits up, grabbing onto Mark by his throat. "What did you just say?" 

Mark chokes and squawks until he reluctantly releases his grip on him. "Hey, buddy, don't mess up my throat! I need that to speak-"

"Either you tell me exactly what you did, or I turn your body into a knife holster." Graves growls out. 

Mark just rolls his eyes, infuriatingly unbothered. "I tweeted 'adult material', apparently. Which is bullshit. You see way more skin on cosplay girls! There was like, maybe that much of the base of your dick showing. I made sure that selfie had my face dead center. Anyway, I need to go yell at their stupid CEO and buy them out and turn their website into a toilet- oh, I bet I could make it run on a toilet too! That's basically water cooled!" 

And while Graves is momentarily distracted trying to understand anything Mark is saying right now, Mark just slips out of the bed and heads out of the room, his phone going up to his ear. "Call ma lawyer!" 

Graves slumps back against the bed. He tries to imagine what the picture must look like. His mind can only fill it in with memories of Mark sucking him off last night. When did he even take a picture? He can't remember looking away... 

He won't be getting back to sleep. Graves rubs a hand down his face and gets out of bed. His whole morning routine is ruined now. But he heads into the bathroom to wash up, and try salvage some of it. Even with the shower running, he can hear Mark yelling at people in the living room, fighting with his lawyer about the website, or the cost of it. Graves washes himself down, and fluffs his feathers back up as they dry. This assignment isn't worth the money. He can't believe it. This is disgraceful. He had sex with a client, which not only unprofessional, but also embarrassing when that client is Mark Beaks. 

It would have been less humiliating if he'd taken home Scrooge McDuck.

It's only as he gets dressed that he notices his phone discreetly displaying the new messages icon. He flips it up to check, and finds dozens and dozens of them waiting from Ryan. 

RYAN: he’s always a dumb bitch  
GRAVES: So it seems.   
RYAN: lmfao you have no idea  
RYAN: so this one time he gets invited to do a ted talk  
RYAN: do you know what a ted talk is  
GRAVES: Unfortunately, yes  
RYAN: LMFAO RIGHT  
RYAN: SO DUMB  
RYAN: anyway okay so they invite him  
RYAN: because of course they do  
RYAN: and he gets up on stage and does a demo for this stupid privacy invading software  
RYAN: like all hey who loves being spied on? you do! because you’re all dumb bitches!  
RYAN: and it’s like instantly obvious to anyone with two brain cells that it’s going to spy on anybody who buys it  
RYAN: and somebody asks him about it  
RYAN: AND HE’S LIKE  
RYAN: IF YOU DON’T HAVE ANYTHING TO HIDE IT DOESNT MATTER  
RYAN: LIKE   
RYAN: BITCH  
RYAN: WHAT THE FUCK  
RYAN: AND PEOPLE BOUGHT IT ANYWAY  
RYAN: THEY’RE SO DUMB  
RYAN: lmfao I swear to god.   
RYAN: are you busy now?   
RYAN: Mark being a bitch?   
RYAN: he hasn’t posted in a while, somebody must have made him put his phone away lmfao  
RYAN: you do that?   
RYAN: hey graves u around?  
RYAN: hey?   
RYAN: are you busy?  
RYAN: hey lmk when you're back  
RYAN: do you like memes?  
RYAN: there's this hilarious video of someone reading marks meltdown tweets here's the link  
RYAN: youtube.com/watch?v=vNXgkKt7gio  
RYAN: if your phone cant open it just type it into a computer  
RYAN: graaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaves  
RYAN: hey are you mad?  
RYAN: or just busy?  
RYAN: just lmk ok?  
RYAN: i get nervous when people ignore me  
RYAN: god sorry if you're busy i know i sent a ton of messages  
RYAN: you're just cool   
RYAN: so yeah lmk  
RYAN: OH WOW  
RYAN: IS THAT YOUR DICK ON MARK'S TWITTER?  
RYAN: OH OKAY  
RYAN: holy shit you actually fucked mark beaks  
RYAN: garbage tastes but good meme status i guess  
RYAN: is this one of the benefits your job has or is it just a job perk?  
RYAN: I'm glad I have an answer if you were ignoring me or not tho  
RYAN: it's fine I'm too cute for your ass  
RYAN: have fun circlejerking with mark   
RYAN: enjoy when he dumps your ass when junes over  
RYAN: because he totally is

Graves, morbid curiosity sated, goes ahead and blocks Ryan's number and deletes the conversation - including the next two hours of texts before presumably Ryan was forced to go to sleep. He blocks the others for good measure too. It's unlikely he'll ever see the trio again, and if he does, he has far bigger things to worry about than a teenager with a bruised heart and ego.

Like the fact that there's a picture out there on the internet of his dick in Mark Beak's mouth. 

He brings the knot of his tie snug against his throat and promptly marches out to the living room. Mark is walking around buck ass naked, yelling into his phone. "I don't care how much it costs, buy them! What do you mean they aren't for sale?! Everything's for sale! Uurrrrggggggg! Fine! How much will it take to bankrupt them and force them to sell? Yeah I can get someone to do that. Yeah I'm looking at him now. Yeah he's my boyfriend. Uh-huh. No. Nope. Absolutely not. Uh-huh." 

Graves marches right up. "Show me the picture." 

"Aren't the grand-apps enough? They're better than kids! They actually make money!" Mark pops the phone away from his mouth for a moment. "In a minute. I'm talking to ma lawyer."

"I want to see it now." He grows out. Mark rolls his eyes.

"I'll call you back, Graves is throwing a fit about the dick pick. Laterz!" He says, and Graves grinds his beak together as he can just hear the unnecessary Z added to that word. Mark swipes swiftly on his phone and then holds it up. "There you go. See? You can barely see your dick. NSFW my ass! Oh that's a good name for an app. Hey phone, add to note app ideas - NSFW My Ass." 

"Added to Note: App Ideas - N S F W My Ass." The phone responds and Mark laughs.

"That never gets old." Mark grins. 

Graves barely listens to any of it. He's got his eyes locked on the photo. It's kind of a mess frankly. That's Mark in frame (barely) and he's got his mouth around something that Graves knows is his cock, but it's hard to really make sense of it at first glance. It's a bit of a mess really, and it takes him a little more looking before it all comes through clear and he sees that yes, that is absolutely and unmistakably Mark Beaks sucking his dick. Mark's right - Grave's cock is barely making an appearance, except for a bit of the base that he can't reach. 

Mark's winking. Urg. Graves had never once put any thought towards what explicit, erotic photos of himself might look like, but he certainly would not have ever imagined this. It's so... low brow, and low effort. 

"I never want to see that again." Graves finally decides. He also flicks his eyes over Mark. "Get dressed. I need to take you to work." 

"Nope." Mark turns his phone back towards himself and starts typing again. "Can't."   
Graves raises an eyebrow. "Do you need someone to dress you?" 

"What? Nooooo. Like I'd let somebody put their hands on this if I wasn't banging them." He slaps his own ass. It's... nicer looking than he would have thought. That seems to be a fair estimate of Mark in general: nicer looking than Graves expected. 

"Then why can't you get dressed?" It's going to be a stupid answer. But he wants Mark out of his apartment.

Mark gives Graves an incredulous look. "I only wear clothes once." 

"What are you talking about? You wear the same outfit nearly every day. I've only seen you in something different last night-" He answers his own question a moment later, pauses and closing his eyes. It's even stupider than he expected it to be, but- "You just own hundreds of the same outfit."

"Wrong. I own thousands of the same outfit." He puts his phone to his ear. "Heeeey ma lawyer! I need a helicopter and clothes!" 

Graves watches as a buck naked Mark walks straight over to the windows, showing his dick to all of Duckburg (or he would, if Graves hadn't spent extra to have the windows coated from the outside to keep prying eyes out). Graves gives up and goes straight to the mini-bar. There's only one way he's getting through this day, and sober isn't part of that plan. 

\--

The helicopter eventually shows up with a change of clothes. The moment they arrive on Waddle grounds, there's a mass of reporters waiting outside, throwing out a million questions, mostly about the fact that Mark Beaks just tweeted out a picture of himself sucking a dick. Mark is all too happy to turn it into a press conference wherein he gives them the hard pitch for the Community, refuses to answer a single question about his personal life directly, and puts an arm around Graves' back no less than three times, even as Graves keeps carefully trying to side-step it and assert that he is the bodyguard right now, not boyfriend.

The cameras focus on him during those moments, clicking away. He can already imagine the headlines. He doesn't want the world to speculate on the size and quality of his dick, but it's too late, they already are. 

Somehow, he makes it through the day without a murder. But not without a maiming. Thankfully, part of being a bodyguard is occasionally saying, "Stay back from Mr. Beaks" when a reporter gets too close, and when they come in again, all but shoving a mic in Mark's face to shout questions, he can simply grab him by the scruff of his neck and bounce him, right through the trampoline alley and onto the non-impact surfaces. It's very satisfying, and hopefully that photo is more appealing to run than the one where Mark tried to sneak a few fingers into the back of Graves' pants. 

The rest of the day is spent standing behind Mark and staring down anyone who looks at Graves for too long. The rest of these indoor dwelling nerds are too afraid of confrontation to do anything except quickly look away and mumble out explanations for why they can't meet with Mark right now. 

Graves travels with Mark to the absolutely awful mansion he calls home and watches as Mark scrambles out of the passenger seat. He waits until the door shuts, and then turns to the autopilot navigator. "Take me to 4422 Sterling-" 

"Hey!" Mark promptly pops his head in through the open window. "Where are you going?" 

"Home." He says and pushes Mark's head back. "Good night, Mr. Beaks." 

"Aw come on, drop the act, there's no paparazzi here! Let's go. Come on. Inside. Now." Mark snaps his fingers a few times and jerks a thumb to the eyesore behind him. "Helloooo, come on! Let's go! Let's go! Let's go-" 

"I am not coming inside with you. I am going home, and I will see you tomorrow morning, at our usual time-" Graves doesn't finish. Mark shoves most his body in the window, shoving into Graves' seat. "What are you doing?" 

"Come ooooon! I want to show you my crib! Do they still call it a crib? You get that reference, right? I bet it's ironic by now." Mark is still in the fucking car. Graves closes his eyes for a moment. He can't kill the client. If he does, he won't get paid the full amount. He has a line on someone willing to smuggle him a certified paphiopedilum rothschildianum. This job will easily pay for the cost of a whole plant. 

Mark is still in his fucking lap. Graves opens his eyes. "Fine." 

"See! Let's go!" Mark pops the car door open and easily slips out, twisting until he ends up on his feet. Graves reluctantly gets out of the car and follows him up the front way. The house is ultra modern, which translates into a cubed mansion with floor to ceiling glass walls, a pool in the courtyard, and palm trees everywhere. 

Graves has broken into so many of these shitty cookie-cutter mansions and ruined entire corporations simply because their idiot CEO kept all their information on a single server in their house. Hmm. Well, once he stops working for Graves at the end of the month, knowing where things are in his house would be very useful. Plenty of people will be willing to steal from Mark Beaks. Maybe this time, his client won't be Mark Beaks stealing from Mark Beaks. 

"Pretty amazing right? I saw this totally cool mansion in L.A. and I was like, I have to get me one of those! So I bought it and moved it out here!" Mark wanders right into his house, tossing his phone onto a table and then clapping his hands. "Hey bitch, play my memes!" 

"Playing your memes, Mark." The house answers. A number of screens around the central room all come to life, playing video after video on them. Most seem to involve music on loops. Graves makes a face. Mark doesn't even notice as he flops onto the couch. 

"Hey bitch, show me how I'm trending on the ceiling!" Mark keeps his head looking straight up at the ceiling. 

"Showing you current trends, Mark." The house pleasantly replies. A wave of scrolling information that Graves can only partly decipher rolls by. He understands the basics at least, the interaction stats, the number of people talking directly about him, that kind of self-absorbed shit that usually he sees attached to companies, and not a particular person. 

He has a more pressing question. "Did you name your house assistant 'bitch'?" 

"Hahaha yeeeeeeah. I used to call my phone 'taint' but marketing said it would be better if I call it phone so I can use it during demonstrations and double-dip on advertising." Mark puts one hand behind his head as he watches the text scrolling above him. "If you want a drink, there's a ton in the fridge." 

"If they're all Mountain Dew, I'm leaving." Graves lets him know. Mark just laughs. 

Mark's house is a nightmare. Half of it is ultra-modern, white and steel and glass everywhere, with screens built into every wall, and at least four roombas fumbling around on the floor. One has a knife taped to it, and Graves just watches at it bounces into a wall and reveals the reason why there seems to be hundreds of similar scrape marks an inch off the ground in every room he walks through. And, among these ultra-modern rooms, Graves sees exactly what he always sees in every mansion he's ever walked into: the inevitable way that excessive wealth lets an individual person's interests become utterly insufferable. 

Life size models of cartoon characters. The latest failures in technology. Kitchen appliances with unnecessary wifi. Pop culture paintings passing themselves off as 'art'. And the fattest raccoon Graves has ever seen sitting on the kitchen counter, surrounded by wrappers. 

Graves stares at the raccoon.

The raccoon stares back. There's icing smeared on it’s body. 

For a second, he considers unblocking Ryan to ask if Mark has a pet raccoon because he thinks it's funny, or if this is a wild creature that's simply found its way inside his home and thrived here, with Mark unaware that it's present at all. Graves honestly doesn't know. The answer could go either way. 

He walks past the raccoon and opens the fridge. It is not full of Mountain Dew, as he expected. It's full of flavoured sparkling water, and a number of drinks that even Graves doesn't full recognize. Some of them are Japanese and Chinese, and those are the ones he has the best chance of understanding, even if he has a rule of not drinking anything that comes in a can. He settles for the chuhai, even if the concept of drinking a highball out of a can makes him shudder.   
Graves departs with his drink, leaving the raccoon far, far behind. 

Mark is still in the living room, on his back, staring at the ceiling. He doesn't acknowledge Graves when he walks in. He just keeps staring, and occasionally moving his feet a little where they're resting on the arm of the couch. 

He gives him two minutes while he sips his drink. It's exactly what he would expect a drink in a can to taste like too. 

"Goodnight, Mr. Beaks." He says, and goes to leave.

"What, why? You just got here? Sit down! Watch TV! Do you want to see that clouds stuff? Hey bitch! Show Graves the top ten streams around the internet!" Mark props himself up. "Just hang out." 

The screens around them turn on. Hardcore pornography is playing on at least four of them. Another three are showing baby animals. Two are traffic cameras, one of which is pointed at a bridge. The last is streaming a video game. 

Mark takes it all in, then says, "Hey bitch? Show nature and shit." 

The screens change to scenes of nature. Graves just sets his can down. "I'm leaving." 

"Don't go! Come on, stay! Let's hang out!" Mark scrambles up and off the couch, and straight into Graves' path. "We'll go swimming! My pool's great, I've got a glass bottom on it so you can see the sea through it!"

"What?" Graves looks out the glass windows, at the pool, which is at least three miles from the shoreline. "How?" 

"I have screens in there! They show a live feed from a resort in the Caribbean! It's great because I can see it, but it's not like anything disgusting is actually there." He grabs onto Graves' arm and pulls. "We can skinny dip! I've never done that before!" 

Graves just puts both hands on Mark's shoulders and forces him to face him. "Why do you want me here?" 

"Because I do? Does it matter?" Mark shrugs a little, glancing around, then sighs. "Are you worried about being seen? You totally won't be. We're the only ones here."

"Your entire house is made of glass, but that's not why-" Graves tries to refocus him, but it's too late.

"Yeah but the neighbourhood is totes empty and the guards kick out anybody who isn't me." Mark waves a hand to the other houses sitting nearby which... huh. Now that Graves is looking at the house visible through the living room's window, it does seem empty. "Yeah I totally bought everyone out when I moved in here, and I have guards set up on the roads in and out, and I totally have these drones that divebomb anyone who comes in! Want to see them?" 

That didn't answer his question. At the same time, he also finds himself not caring so much about why Mark's being so weird, because that sounds very, very handy. 

"... yes. I want to see them." 

"Cool! Cool, cool, cool!" Mark grabs Graves' hand and yanks him to follow after him, taking him upstairs to a room at the very top of the house, which turns out to be absolutely crammed full of drones. And after Mark explains how they work, he lets it slip that he has some robot dog guards he's working on, and after that... 

By the time Graves realizes he'd ended up spending the night at Mark's house, he's getting head from Mark and he really can't bring himself to care. Whatever. One weird night at Mark's house is something he can handle. This job only has two weeks left, and then he won't see Mark again. And hopefully by the time next June rolls around, he'll find someone else to drag into his stupid schemes. 

\--

Despite Graves thoughts, he's wrong. He ends up at Mark's home the next night too, and the next, and the night after, Mark ends up at his place instead, until he finally just starts packing a change of clothes with him in case he ends up at Mark's place instead. He insists on going back to his place about half the time though, because the orchids need to be taken care of. 

The sex is good. Mark's house is still a weird nightmare, but it's not so bad. Mark just seems to want company desperately, not even to entertain him all night long, but just to be in the same room at him. Graves brings a book with him, which seems to horrify Mark even more than the phone does. He gives Graves a Waddle e-reader, and while it's an absolute piece of garbage, the design is fairly decent and it comes with a very, very large credit to purchase books from their store, so he's willing to tolerate it. For now. 

It's easier when they end up at Graves' house. Mark's house is too big and frankly depressing to spend any length of time in, since Mark really only uses two rooms. The raccoon absolutely isn't a pet, but it might as well own the kitchen, so Graves leaves it be. His home has no animals in it, and when he's there, he can take care of the orchids. 

"It's like, hilarious. You're a big bad super James Bond spy but you take care of pretty little plants!" Mark's taking photos of them to put on his twitter again. It's fine. He prefers that over photos of himself. The orchids at least have an obvious value to them, and he feels a little satisfaction hearing that people are impressed by the collection. 

"I'm not that kind of spy." It's the fifth time he's corrected Mark. Graves knows it won't stick, but he feels compelled to say it anyway. 

"You're totally that kind of spy. You're just not doing it for like, I don't know, what did he do it for? That old lady? His boyfriend with the gadgets?" Mark flashes a peace sign and sticks his tongue out slightly, posing in front of vanda flabellata. "This looks so tasty, I totally want to eat it." 

"You eat it, and I'm pulling your tongue out." Graves spritzes Mark with the spray bottle, smirking as the billionaire sputters. 

"You totally wouldn't, you'd miss it too much." Mark sticks it out, and Graves can't help but chuckle a little. He might. Mark does give very good head...

The closest he comes to doing his actual real job is at the end of the third week in June, when they stop for Mark to get his cold pressed coffee at 2:15. Hideous drinks are for the morning at 10:35, which according to Mark, is when they get the more interaction when posted to twitter. Adult coffee is for the afternoon, when Mark needs it to continue functioning until the evening, which is reserved for cup after cup of espresso when staying up late to code. 

(Learning his client's behavior is normal. It's a part of the job. He just usually isn't fucking his clients at the same time. But this whole situation is odd.) 

The intern that brings Mark his coffee isn't the usual one. Mark doesn't notice, but Graves does, as he also notices the nervous way they're looking around at Graves and Mark. He offers the coffee out, nearly shoving it at Mark desperately. "Almond-infused foam-" 

"Drink it." Graves says, and stops Mark from taking it.

"Hey! That's my 2:15 coffee! If I don't have my coffee at 2:15, that means I'll have it later, which means I won't have my espresso on time, which means the entire order of the day is thrown out. Do you know what that means? Productivity, lost! Money, lost! Time-" Mark gets into it. 

Graves tunes him out, grabbing the intern by the collar and forcing the coffee towards him. "Drink it." 

"I-I... I'm allergic to almonds..." The intern stutters out. His pupils are dilated. He's afraid - too afraid. It should be a slower build. His heart is pounding. 

"Drink it. Or I'll make you drink it." And he brings it closer-

The intern panics, flailing out their arms. The coffee's knocked out of Graves' hand, and splashed on the floor. "You're running the floor!" Mark yells. The intern tries to run but Graves has an iron grip. He grabs the intern and forces them down to the floor, holding their face directly above the puddle. 

"Laxatives!!" He finally shrieks. "It's got laxatives in it!" 

"And why would that be?" Graves hauls him upright. The intern doesn't answer. It seems. that they've decided to exercise their right to stay quiet. "Excuse me, Mr. Beaks. I need to speak to this one in private." 

"Yeah, sure, whatever. Hey phone, what are laxatives?" And Graves hauls the intern and himself away before Mark can learn about side-effects. 

Waddle has many, many rooms. Some of them even have locks on the door. It's a little hard to truly threaten someone in a room with rainbow countertops and bean bag chairs, but Graves has always done his best in any environment. He walks away with a motive (to embarrass Mark Beaks for co-opting the LGBT+ community for financial gain, and because he's an asshole billionaire) and most importantly, the names of those who helped him get a job here. 

Graves heads off to find Mark, who is currently cooped up in his office. He can hear Mark soldering wires and see the sparks flying. He isn't wearing any protective gear, of course. He also looks surprisingly menacing. It's... a bit of a turn on, if he's honest. He likes the occasional reminder that Mark is capable of being very ruthless, when he's not acting like a spoiled, distracted child. 

No man becomes a billionaire unless he's willing to crush a few skulls on his climb to the top.   
"I've gotten the details from your would-be poisoner and passed them along to the police. I've also passed on additional names to your security team. I expect they will have the rest of the conspirators ready for... interrogation later." Graves walks closer to see what Mark is working on.

He can't tell. Something electronic. Mark nods, "Oh they're going to regret this. They're going to regret all of this. So they thought they'd make me poop my pants so they could put it on twitter? Now they're the ones who're going to look like big babies. Big poopy babies!" 

"Hmm." Graves had been enjoying Mark's sinister air, but the effect has been ruined somewhat. He decides he doesn't want to know what Mark's building, or how it ties into 'big poopy babies'. He just sets his hands on the desk instead. "Will you be spending the night locked up in your home working on this, or are you coming to my apartment?" 

"What?" Mark finally looks up from his soldering. "Uh. What?" 

"Where are you spending the night, your house or my apartment? I have a few errands to run, depending on what your plans are." There's a few packages waiting for Graves, and there's his usual trip to the nearby greenhouse to see if they have anything notable in. 

"I'm not going anywhere. I'm in the zone. And there's no room for anybody but Mark Beaks when I'm in the zone." Urg, he's somehow even more obnoxious this way. Mark hunkers back down, staring at the circuit board in front of him. "So stop-" 

"Don't say 'the zone' again." Graves just rubs the top of his beak. Urg. "I'll be back in a few hours time. Don't accept any food or drink unless I bring it." 

"Yeah yeah sure okay, get me spring rolls, lots of spring rolls, and the cashew sauce." And with that, Mark puts his head down. Graves leaves him there and goes on his way to do his errands. It's somewhat relaxing being on his own, having time to browse over the greenhouse, knowing that Mark is likely fine on his own. 

And yet, it's hard to concentrate. It's just because of today's incident. He's worried about not doing his job - even if his 'job' as presented by Mark wasn't actually being a bodyguard. Laxatives are hardly the worst thing to spike a coffee with. And yet-

He doesn't like the idea of Mark being hurt in any way. It would be bad for Graves' own reputation. That's all. 

When he returns, it's less than a few hours. He brings take-out and some of those dreadful vitamin waters Mark likes. Mark's focused on his projects (Graves refuses to even think about 'the zone') and Graves simply leaves his portion of the food by Mark's elbow. Mark grabs a spring roll, shoves his in his mouth, and keeps on working. He's building some kind of machine. It's rather impressive... here Graves thought he was just a software engineer. It seems Mark's true talent lies here, in building the actual technology that runs Waddle. 

The office is overly large and empty. Graves drags a couch in, sets up with his e-reader, and spends his evening with a book while Mark remains absolutely silent, except for the occasional muttered threat. 

It's late when Mark finally stops building and finally gets up from his desk. He promptly heads straight over to the couch, shoving into Graves' arms and flopping against his chest. Graves frowns. This is entirely too cuddly for his own good. 

Mark looks exhausted. He lays his head against Graves' chest and closes his eyes. "I'm not a pillow." He tells Mark. 

He expects Mark to bitch back, or perhaps whine. Mark just stays there, eyes closed, and he mumbles out, "I don't get why they hate me so much. I'm making everything better." 

Graves raises an eyebrow. It's rather obvious why they hate him. Mark is an self-obsessed narcissist who insists at being at the center of everything at all times. He's treating Graves' sexuality as something you can brand an app with and print on shirts to sell. He throws fits and tantrums at the drop of a hat, and he steals other people's hard work like it's going out of style. Frankly, it's a wonder that anyone likes Mark enough to put up with him. 

He doesn't say any of this. He just sets a hand on Mark's back, letting his wing rest there. "Jealousy." 

"Hah, right. Stupid jealous poor people." Mark laughs a little, and some of the tension in his back drains out. "They're not smart enough to really fight me. They have to try make me shit myself. Like that would work. I tweet stupider stuff every day. I bet if I pooped my pants, half of the engineers in the state would copy me."

"Undoubtedly." Graves agrees. "But if you shit yourself, I'm going to spray you with a hose." 

"With what?" Mark cracks his eyes open. 

"How do you not know what a hose is?" Graves shakes his head and Mark shrugs. 

"I know about important stuff. That's enough." Mark turns so he's settled with his back against Graves' front. "Whatcha reading?" 

"'We Only Bloom At Midnight.'" Graves answers. He trusts that will be boring enough to keep Mark from asking any further questions - and realizing that it's a gay romance. 

"Booooring." Mark digs his own phone out, shoves his earphones in his face, then crams the screen two inches away from his eyes and watches a video. Graves sighs and goes back to his own book, keeping an arm draped around Mark's waist as they both enjoy their respective mostly-silent entertainment. 

\--

Graves is kept busy between rooting out the other co-conspirators and with dealing with a half-ass counter protest that appears at the entrance of Waddle. That protest doesn't last long, but Graves doesn't have to do much expect supervise while the cops root them out. It's very satisfying seeing all those idiots go running the moment they realize they're in a dead-zone and none of their tweets or live streams are going out. Mark cackles with laughter when he watches the surveillance video later, drumming his feet against the chair. "Look at them go! Oh man! I just wish I'd been able to figure out the brown-note generator in time!" 

He does not ask what Mark means by that. Context is already providing too much information as it is. He just enjoys Mark's unrestrained glee as he posts another advertisement for his shirts and scarves, now down to 30% off for the final days of June. And he makes sure to discreetly take some photos of the mass signal-blocking device Mark developed, for his own use down the line. That should prove every helpful in other jobs. 

Yet despite that planning, he becomes comfortable with Mark. It becomes second nature to wait in his office at the end of the day to see what Mark's plans are, or to occasionally prompt Mark to leave and return home, or at least return to Graves' home. He becomes vaguely aware of how domestic things have become, and then promptly dismisses it. It's just a facsimile, a part of this job. And as with every job, part of it requires playing a job so well that you lose yourself in it. It's only ever temporary though. 

He wakes up on July 1st to the sound of Mark's alarm. Graves ignores it, as he knows Mark's routine by now: shut it off, lie in bed for another hour while typing on social media, get up when Graves does, refuse to eat the healthy breakfast that Graves makes and instead drink a horrible protein shake, and then head to work. His eyes shut, and while he hears Mark get up early, he doesn't register it any. 

It's an hour later when Graves wakes up to the gentle glow of his dawn-simulating lights, feeling well rested. He gets up and heads to the shower. Mark is still out of bed. He must be in the kitchen, having one of those long, strange conversations he has with his lawyer. Graves has been forced onto the phone with her twice now, and she sounds remarkably tired at all times, confirming if Mark has been eating anything or sleeping well, and if he can legally pilot a helicopter in his current condition, or if Mark is truly sure that he requires another segway. 

But when he enters the kitchen, Mark isn't there. There's not a trace of him anywhere. Graves feels his stomach go cold. He's been kidnapped, right out from under his nose. Graves springs into action, throwing on a suit and grabbing his keys as he takes the stairs down to the parking garage. It's been a while since he used the car, but it's still got a full tank of gas, and it rumbles to life as he starts the engine. The jaguar is a beast of a machine, and with all 12 cylinders firing up, he pulls out of the garage and makes his way to Waddle to alert the security team that their CEO and self-absorbed prodigy has gone missing. 

He pulls through the security check, ignoring the way they yell at him, and parks straight over the no-impact trampoline, getting out. "Sir!" One of the idiot guards yells at him, but Graves is already moving to find the actual movers and shakers here-

The sound of explosives catches Graves off-balance. Explosions, here? It's a far cry from laxatives in the coffee, but he doesn't stop to think about that escalation. He just runs, drawing his pistol and he comes around the corner, taking him at the crowd-

-and at Mark Beaks, standing in a circle of cameras, shooting sparklers and roman candles. He's wearing an utterly obnoxious combination of american flag jackets, shirt, sunglasses and a hat turned backwards. "July, baby! Baseball apps! Apple pie smoothies! Fireworks! F-f-f-f-freedom! And there's nothing freer than the Community, our online social network made just for you, and all of your friends, and everyone who thinks the most important thing in this world... is the freedom to spend your hard earned cash on all this Waddle merchandise!"   
He drops the candles, still shooting, and half the film crew is forced to pick their feet up and quickly hop over firing rockets. "And don't forget to download our apps which, for the month of July... all have stars AND stripes. BOOYEAH!" 

Graves has been watching, jaw dropped, but he can't hold himself back any longer. "What are you doing?!"

Mark finally notices him, peering over the top of his flag shutter-shades. "Uh, TRYING to shoot a promo? Oh my god did we get it all? We didn't! Arg! Start over! Get me more rockets!"

"But this is live-" One of the assistants tries to say, but quickly shuts up and the crowd disperses to get more shit. 

Mark turns and points a finger at Graves. "You ruined my promo!" 

"I thought you'd been kidnapped!" Graves snaps back. "Why didn't you leave a note?" 

"What? Like..." And his eyes go down to his phone. "I... could but they're on my phone-"

"With a pen and paper- nevermind, I don't want to explain." He heads it off before Mark can make him feel entirely too ancient. And that's not actually important. What's important is- "How was I supposed to know you were safe?" 

"Uh? You weren't?" Mark laughs and shakes his head. "Oh man. You're getting weeeeird. Is this a stalker thing now?" 

"I am your bodyguard. It's not stalking to make sure you're fine while I'm working for you-"   
He catches himself too late. Graves realizes it at the same time as Mark. He didn't look at the calendar when he left. 

"Hahaha nooooo, no, no. you don't work for me. June is over. The contract's done. I don't need a boyfriend anymore, or a body guard. How did you even get in here? I totally revoked your security clearance like, at midnight." Mark checks his phone. "Oh! You broke in! Neato! Actually, let me get a photo, this is going to be a hilarious way to resolve this whole like plot thing." He turns to get a selfie with Graves, and Graves slaps the phone out of his hand, smashing it on the ground. Mark makes a face and digs out another. 

"You-" Inconsiderate selfish asshole? That's a waste of his breath. He tries again. "I can't-" Believe that he would do this? He absolutely can. Graves clicks his beak and tries hard to think of the right words to say. Mark just used him and tossed him aside. The last two weeks were nothing - and he knew they were, and yet here he is, caught off guard by them. And what could he possibly say here? Anything will just reveal how stupid and foolish he's been. 

Graves runs a hand down his face and takes a breath. Stay composed. Get it together.

"Has my last payment been deposited?" Graves asks instead. 

"Uh, yeah, at midnight? Get a phone that can actually check your bank's app. Also, I'm going to need you to leave before I call the guards." Mark turns and barks out, "And where are my fireworks?" 

Graves is so tempted to punch Mark and knock him to the ground, or to grab him by the collar of his cheap shirt and shake him. He wants to yell at him for making Graves act so foolishly.  
But that's Graves' fault, and only his fault. He's the one who got lost playing his role. He turns his back on Mark and leaves him to shoot his terrible, tacky commercial, and he heads back to his car to get out of here, and go lick his wounds somewhere private. 

\--

The first thing he does when he gets back is to book in a cleaning service. He also grabs a bag, planning on throwing out everything of Mark's that he's left there. But he finds that it's all gone when he checks: all the terrible vitamin drinks, the protein shakes, the identical spare sets of clothes. There's no a trace of Mark left. 

Graves begrudgingly admits to himself that he's impressed with Mark's thoroughness. He must have packed everything to take with him this morning. Under other circumstances, he might have sent Mark a message to let him know how shocking diligent he had been. 

He doesn't. There's no point. He expects that if Mark has his number, he's already blocked it. That's what Graves would do after all. 

He puts the bag away and spends the afternoon arranging the purchase of another orchid he's had his eyes on for a while, and then clipping and tending to his greenhouse. It's relaxing work, though he's still tense and grinding his beak by the end. Mark's gotten his goat. It's impressive.   
Graves hates how impressive it is. He got fooled by that idiot twice now. Perhaps that means he should stop thinking of Mark as an idiot, but he is. He's an absolute idiot. He didn't know what breakfast was. He consumes nearly all of his food in either drink form, or inside of deep-fried pastry shells. Mark thinks the most effective way to build his brand is to theme his apps depending on the month. 

He's an idiot. But he's the idiot who outmaneuvered Graves on every level. 

The first four days, he sulks in his apartment. Graves turns off the TV showing scenery and lies on his couch and glares up at the ceiling. His reputation is in the toilet and he'll need to rebuild it. At least he has the money to do so, though that same money came at the cost of tanking it even further than it previously had been. He doesn't miss Mark exactly - Mark wasn't exactly an easy person to spend any length of time with - but he does miss getting head. Mark had been excellent at that at least. He was an undeniable natural talent, nurtured over the years by having to contort himself into various poses in order to suck himself off. 

He should have taken a photo of that to keep. Though it might be pathetic if he had, as he would certainly jerk off while looking at it, and somehow that seems sadder than just reviewing memories and using them as wanking fodder. 

Graves jerks off a few times. It's not as good as Mark's mouth. He'll get over it in time.   
On the fifth day, he gets texts from an unknown number. 

UNKNOWN: lol hows it feel getting dumped?  
UNKNOWN: hope that head was worth it  
UNKNOWN: hes already dumped all the rainbow flags, like we told you he would  
UNKNOWN: he's a shitty manipulative asshole   
UNKNOWN: you got played like a fiddle

After the fifth message, Graves realizes he knows who it is. Ryan. He must be texting from a new phone. It's tempting to respond back with bravado, or to trash-talk Mark. But Ryan seems to be in the middle of a meltdown, so he just blocks him again and drags his ass off the couch. Come on, Graves. Enough sulking. Back in the saddle. He's got info worth selling, and a reputation to rebuild. 

He cleans himself up, puts on his best suit, and gets back on his laptop, looking for a job to take him out of the country for a few weeks. 

\--

Russia is a cold and festering shithole. Graves finds it refreshing after weeks stuck in Duckburg, surrounded by modern technology and excess. Russia is simple; bribes, brute force, and a population of people who would rather keep their heads down than get caught up in someone else's bullshit. Graves beats the shit out of a lot of people, and gets paid semi-decently. It's the kind of job he might not take under other circumstances, since all the expenses mean he'll do little more than break even by the time everything's been paid for, but he has money to burn after the Beaks job, and drinking in a foreign country is exactly what he needs to get his stride back. 

It's so effective that when he arrives back at his apartment and finds the door unlocked, he's already drawing as he throw it open, pulling a bead on the first head he sees-

Which is Mark Beak's, as he sits on the couch. Mark looks up from his phone, beaming, "Hey, Gravesy! There you are! I thought maybe you were dead or something!"

"What the fuck are you doing here?" He doesn't put his gun away, though he does drop his suitcase just inside the door and slams the front door shut. 

"Oh my god, you wouldn't believe how boring the last two weeks have been! And everybody's up my ass like, urg, Mark, there's bad press! Mark the new phones keep blowing up! Mark, you can't drop acid and livetweet your kitchen raccoon!" He rolls his eyes. "It's so duuuuumb." 

"Then why the fuck are you in my house? Did you break in?" Graves storms over. Annoyingly, Mark isn't afraid, even with a gun pointed at him. This is like when he held him over the balcony!   
"Phffff, no! I made a copy of your keys. Obviously." Mark looks down at his phone and starts typing. "I figured I'd drop by to get railed, but then you were here, so I was also like hey, this is a great place to hide out until Gravesy comes back." 

There's so much to take in: the copy of his keys; the fact that he came over to get laid; the other fact that he's been using Graves' apartment as if it were a vacation home; Gravesy as a nickname. 

Graves takes a breath. He lowers his gun and sets it on the coffee table. He takes out his cufflinks and puts them on the table, beside the gun. His phone joins it shortly. Mark is typing away, oblivious to Graves as he discards his jacket next, and his shirt, folding both up and lying them on the table.

Then he grabs Mark off the couch in one hand and carts him over to the balcony. The sound of him strangling is wonderful. He tosses the phone over the balcony and as Mark struggles to breathe with one hand around his throat, Graves searches him and discards of the other three phones he's carrying, tossing each over the side and letting them fall to the ground far below. 

"Now, we can talk without distractions." He lowers Mark enough to put his feet on the ground. Graves loosens his grip and lets Mark get air in, before quickly closing his grip again to prevent him from saying anything stupid. "You have made a fool of me. Why shouldn't I just pitch you over the side and tell the police that you've been squatting in my apartment?" 

He loosens his grip, just a little. Mark gasps in air, and with both his hands grabbing tight to Graves' wrist, he squeaks out, "B-because I'm Mark Beaks." 

"Yes, and I can think of at least two dozen people who would send me personal thank you notes for that. But I do appreciate the answer anyway. You're quite bold for a man whose life is on the line." He lowers his head, until they're beak to beak. "Do you have another answer?" 

Mark squeaks as he sucks in a breath of air. It takes him a little longer to answer this time, and there's a tilt in his voice as he provides an answer he's not even sure of. "I give great head?"

"You do. Sucking your own cock for years was excellent training." It's not exactly an empathetic answer - it has absolutely no acknowledgement as to why Graves might still be sore about everything that happened, or perhaps angry that he was used and disposed of so quickly. And yet, it is a stretch for Mark, as he's named a service he does for people, rather than something he is, or something other people should do for him. 

So Graves lets up his grip entirely and Mark falls back against the rail, catching his breath. Graves sets his hands on the balcony railing and looks out over Duckburg. It's good to be back in Silverbeak, and to see those familiar streets, and the view of the harbor in the distance. 

"Cool." Mark sputters out when he finishes coughing, and he leans against the railing too, mostly clinging to it. "Real cool. So. You do that again and I'm suing." 

"I expect you will. But I also expect that I won't need to do that again." He feels the wind run through his feathers, and inhales, smelling the saltwater breeze. "If you are going to come to my apartment, then you will follow my rules. I don't work for you. I am under no obligation to indulge you-" 

"But you want to." Mark smirks. It's an infuriating expression. And yet, also very good. "You really want to." 

He does. It's terrible. "You can't revoke my access to your home and workplace without informing me."

"Uh, the point of taking permissions away is you don't tell the person ahead of time so they can’t get a bunch of dirt on you. Which you totally already did. You stole my cell blocking technology! Or are you going to tell me that you totally weren't planning on doing it with my other cool Waddle inventions?" Mark raises both eyebrows, crossing his arms over his chest. 

There's something more terrible than Mark's smirk, and that's when Mark is right. Graves does not answer. He wishes he hadn't taken his jacket off and had kept his cigarettes on hand. It's easier to delay answers when you've got a cigarette in your mouth. But of course, he didn't want to risk Mark ruining his shirt and jacket. 

"Yeah that's right, I'm not stupid. You don't become a billionaire without figuring out how to tell when someone else is trying to steal from you." Mark gives Graves' chest a jab. "You're not better than I am. Admit it." 

"I never said I was better than you." Graves mutters but they both know he's just deflecting. He certainly has thought of himself as better, and that's what let Mark outplay him so easily. "I won't get caught flat-footed again. But if you act out, I'm bouncing you out of here." 

"Phhfff yeah sure. Whatever. I'll follow your dumb rules, whatever they are. Just text them to me. And get a better phone. One that gets pictures. Or all my nudes are going to be totally wasted." His head bobs back and forth, and Graves can't help but laugh. He's absurd. Even when promising to send the one thing he wants, Mark can't help but undercut his own attempts at being seductive or sly or conniving. 

"Send me one. Make it look classic, not bloated or hideous." Graves barely has a chance to say what he wants before Mark's nodding. "And I will not appear in any promotional materials." 

"Sure! It's past June anyway, I don't want to remind everybody about that until it's Pride again! Rainbows are out, fireworks are in! Pew pew!" He shoots fingerguns at the sky. "Pkow! Pchhoo pchhoo, bckow!" 

Enough of that. Graves simply scoops Mark up, tossing him over his shoulder and dragging him off the balcony. He ignores the firework sounds as they continue from over his shoulder, and he takes Mark straight to the bedroom, where he drops him on the bed. Mark bounces, and he's already twisting out of his jacket and fumbling with that identical yellow button-up he wears every single damn day. 

"Okay so, this time, I want you to rail me!" Mark keeps squirming around. Graves watches him. It's the least erotic thing he's seen. He can't believe this absolutely too-rich idiot has managed to con him on multiple, separate occasions. It's absolutely embarrassing how hard he is watching him writhe around. "Fill my big fat cloaca, big boy!" 

"Never call me 'big boy' again." Graves removes his pants and does the same with Mark, stripping him naked. It's been weeks since he slept in his bed and it's good to kneel on it. He's going to love falling asleep here, once he's put Mark to work. He spreads Mark's thighs and parks his feathers until he finds the soft, pink entrance waiting for him. Graves pauses. "Have you been playing with yourself today?"

"Uh, always? Come on man, you were in my bedroom for like, weeks, you know what I get up to! Jerk off at 6:45am, jerk off at 1:34 pm, jerk off one more time at 10:35, unless I've had sex, in which case, I can skip that one." Mark just bends his legs up, hooking them behind his head and opening himself wide up. His cock is already stirring. "Three orgasms a day keep productivity up! See, I've been reading this book about orgone energy-"

"Stop talking immediately." He says, and slides a few fingers inside. 

"Make me!" Mark laughs at his own joke, and he squirms around as Graves sinks his fingers in. "That's the stuff. You should buy some nice toys for me to use while I'm here." 

Graves has very, very nice toys, but he has no desire to share them with Mark, so he keeps quiet. "We'll pick some out. I don't want anything hideous coming inside." 

Mark laughs and wiggles, and Graves realizes a moment too late he's set himself up for a joke. "I saw the photos of your ex, it's too late for that!" 

"What photos- no, don't tell me. I want to fuck you, not have a stroke thinking about how many ways you've violated my privacy." Graves growls out. But despite saying that, he is somewhat aroused at the thought that Mark has regularly been stalking Graves to learn about him. It's very evil, and shockingly intelligent of Mark to keep that quiet instead of instantly blabbing about it. But then again, he's begun to accept that Mark's obnoxious behavior is a cover for the far more conniving and ruthless personality beneath the surface. 

It's maddening, how he can both be entirely sincerely ridiculous, and yet also have that depth beneath the shallow wading pool that beckons him in. 

"If you wanted your privacy protected, you should use a different password for all your accounts- ah!" Mark arches up as Graves slides another finger inside and crooks them in just the right way. That angle is always a killer, and Mark trembles on the bed, panting. "W-wow! Haha, you know your stuff!" 

"Of course I do." He works his fingers in and out of Graves while reaching with his free hand for the dresser. There's condoms inside and Graves fishes one out, tearing the package open with his beat. 

"Oh man wait wait, can you do that again-" Mark reaches for a phone that isn't there, and he keeps patting around until he scowls. "Oh come on-" 

"Absolutely no phones in here, and I refuse to let you tweet a video of me fucking you." Graves has standards, even if Mark doesn't. He quickly rolls the condom on, and Mark just gripes underneath him. 

"I just wanted you opening that condom up with your beak, that was so cool! Very super spy of you!" Mark twitches and arches up as Graves starts to open his fingers up to stretch him out. "I'd g-get so many retweets! It's memeable material!" 

"I refuse to understand half of that." He slowly slides his fingers out and sucks his fingers clean. Mark just whines, squirming around eagerly. His newly cleaned hand holds Mark still as the other helps guide his cock inside. 

Mark is shockingly tight which- well, he supposes that checks out. For someone who behaves sexually, he certainly does move slow. They've done nothing but give one another head or jerk each other off over the past two weeks. Or in Graves' case, he's enjoyed watching Mark suck his own dick and eat his cloaca out. Likely being able to pleasure himself means that the times Mark has found it necessary to rely on anyone else for that kind of satisfaction have been far and few between. 

"For someone who is desperately seeking attention-" He has to stop., not able to continue when Mark squeezes around the head of his cock, and he's left breathless. 

"Say it," Mark moans out, and it is criminal how good he looks like this, hard as a rock, cloaca spread out around Graves' own cock. It's so good. He clicks his beak together and his own cloaca clenches some. Mark parts his beak and he squirms, "Call me an attention whore." 

"You are an attention whore." He gasps out. Mark just squeeze tight. Oh god... "You're- insufferable. Desperate for- any validation. A liar. A t-thief."

"Yeah, yeah, lay it on, tell me how good I am at it!" Mark moans. He runs his hands over his chest, ruffling his feathers, and then grabbing onto his cock and stroking it. That just makes him tighter and Graves' heads falls forward as he struggles to keep himself together. He's going to fall apart. Mark is going to make him fall to pieces... 

And from the smirk on Mark's face, he knows it. 

He refuses to let himself be humbled this way. If he's going to be left incoherent and useless, then Mark will be as well. Graves pulls back, sliding his cock back out and Mark squawks. "Hey! Put it back!" 

"In a moment." He reaches back into his dresser and feels around for the other box. Mark's cock is smaller than his own, and he'll need the other size. He finds them, and opens another condom-

"That is just so fucking hot." Mark sighs. Then his eyebrows bolt up as Graves slides the condom over Mark's cock. "Hold on, what's going on?"

"You're flexible, aren't you?" He picks Mark up and changes their positions. He needs to grab the pillows from the head of the bed and tuck them under his pelvis, until he has enough of a ramp to lift his hips up when he lies on his back. Graves spreads his thighs wide, and motions between his hips. "What's that position? Downward facing dog?" 

Mark blinks his eyes, and when he realizes what Graves is proposing, he has a full body laugh, looking utterly delighted by it. It's infuriatingly adorable. "Oh my god, you are such a freak! I love it!" 

And he reaches for a phone that still isn't there, scowling. Graves just gives him a push. "Go on." 

"Urg, don't push me around." He rolls his eyes, but then he scrambles up all the same, tucking himself between Graves' legs and hooking his feet around his chest. Graves helps by setting a hand on one of Mark's feet so he doesn't lose his grip. It's unnecessary, as Mark's certainly spend enough time holding poses that he's got an impressive amount of strength in his feet. Mark's hands end up on the bed and he walks himself forward, until their hips are pressed together. "Give me a hand!" 

"I am, just be patient." His other hand grips his cock and he starts to slide himself inside. Mark's still tight, but the different angle helps, and he's able to get the head of his cock in. Mark squirms on him, and sinks down with gravity on his side. "Hold on-" 

"Hurry up!" Mark insists. Graves gets his hand down to Mark's cock, and he does the same. Graves hasn't stretched himself out, but he doesn't have to when Mark's smaller, and he's already a little wet from the foreplay. As Mark's cloaca sinks further down on Grave's cock, he's able to finally slot Mark's own cock into Graves' cloaca. They both make noise as he sinks in, a blatant open moan from Mark, and a quiet clicking of his beak from Graves.

It's been a while since he attempted anything like this. Usually, it's easier to take turns trading places, or to simply ignore his own cloaca to focus on his partner's. And he clearly doesn't play with his as much as Mark does. 

He tries his best not to think how it looks, and he focuses entirely on his it feels Mark's cloaca is tight and wet, gripping and sliding down on Graves' cock. And Mark's cock is very hard, sliding in ever so easily into Graves' cloaca. The angle is wonderful for him, and he sets a hand on Mark's ass to encourage him to push in deeper - and to be pushed down on his cock quicker.   
"Holy fuck!" Mark pants out, groaning and squirming. His hips push forward - thrusting, and the sensation is marvelous. Even Graves can't help but cry out, feeling the wonderful sensation of being fucked and fucking simultaneously. He presses his shoulders into the bed and uses the leverage to roll his hips forward, grinding against Mark. 

Mark does the same, feet gripping tight around Graves' chest as he starts to thrust down. Together, they manage to find a rhythm, a motion that suits them both as they fuck. Graves' head falls back and he pants as he buries himself in Mark - and feels Mark do the same to him. His cloaca squeezes and tries to suck as much of Mark in as he can. Another press down from his hand and he feels his cock sink in as deep as it can - and Mark's does the same. 

"This is so hot! This is buckwild!" Mark pants out. "Y-you do this all the time?" 

"No. Rarely." Graves groans and feels his cock twitch. He won't last for long. But he feels certain Mark won't either. He can already feel Mark's hips starting to lose the pattern, just thrusting away unevenly. It feels fantastic. Graves digs a hand into Mark's ass and squeezes it and he rocks his hips forward again. 

"We're totally doing th-this all the time! This is great!" Mark laughs and as his hips buck wildly into Graves, his cock slamming into Mark - and Mark's slamming into his - Mark says, "I don't even want to tweet during it!" 

He imagines this is a high compliment in Mark's mind but Graves just groans out, "Stop talking about your fucking phone!" 

"Um, no! Never!" And Mark moans, his whole body clenching up, talons digging into Graves' ribs as he slams his hips in again and again. Graves can feel him coming, can feel the way Mark's cloaca goes from tight to almost impossible to withstand. The tension runs through his body and Graves gasps, eyes rolling back in his head. He stops thinking and just grabs Mark's hips with both hands and shoves him down hard, Graves just grinding away. A little more. A little more. 

"Holy fuck!" Mark gasps out, "Graves!" 

Graves grunts as he thrusts forward, and then-

He comes as well, surrounded and impaled at the same time. The orgasm is a large one, leaving his whole body trembling and panting. He collapses on the bed, his hands slipping from Graves' hips. 

Mark must be similarity affected because he stays quiet afterwards, neither of them moving until finally Mark slowly squirms off of Graves' cock. Graves can feel a little pain in his side where Mark's talons scratched during that last bit. Mark rolls off, and onto the bed, and Graves stays where he is, propped up on the pillows. There's a wonderful heat radiating through his cloaca and his thighs feel so weak. He imagines that if he were to stand up, he would sway like a drunkard. 

After a remarkably blissful bit of silence, Mark finally starts to inch his way up, flopping at the top of the bed when he makes it. He strips his condom off, and in what is frankly the worse action Graves has ever seen, he just dumps it on the floor. "What are you doing?!"

"Uh, taking it off? It's super not comfortable- hey!" He scrambles out of the way as Graves takes a swipe at him. "What are you doing?" 

"Do not drop condoms on my floor when there is a garbage can right there!" And he points to the can, which is less than two feet away. He doesn't even have to get out of bed to reach it. And to make his point, Graves pulls his own off, ties it up, and puts it in the can. 

Mark watches and just stares at Graves. "Why? The cleaning service people will just pick it up."   
"No, they absolutely won't! My cleaner will quit on the spot. So pick that up, now!" Graves gives him a push and Mark finally does so, grumbling the entire time. "I expect you to treat this place with respect. Garbage goes in the garbage can." 

"Sheesh! Fine! Urg, you're such a bore sometimes." Mark flops back down. "And I don't have my phoooooone!" 

"Perhaps what you need is less time on your phone. Here." He reaches over, fetches one of his hardcovers and hands it to Mark. "If you're this bored, amuse yourself with this." 

"Oh my god, this is so old! All the letters don't move or anything! Graaaaaves." Mark whines and flops over. "This is so boring." 

Graves sighs. He glances at the book. He... supposes that isn't quite Mark's speed. And perhaps if he's asking Mark to respect his needs, he might do the same, if he plans on having Mark over to fuck him again. And he will be. 

"Here." He offers a reasonable compromise - and hands Mark his e-reader. "I expect there's some sort of game on there." 

"Oh my god, old Waddle technology!" Mark gushes and Graves just stares. Old technology? The blasted thing isn't even a month old- 

Oh forget it. He simply takes a pillow from under his hips and moves it to the top of the bed to lie on, while Mark sits up in bed and plays with the e-reader. As long as it keeps him quiet until they're ready to have sex again, who cares. Graves has certainly deal with far more irritating scenarios.

And perhaps, when it's just himself, he can admit that there is something a little soothing about those little taps Mark's fingers make when he's typing.


End file.
